


A Reason to Swim

by CapnJack



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Commitment Phobia, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Journalism, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 15:56:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 53,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1654205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapnJack/pseuds/CapnJack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Smith is a commitment phobe and always has been, with a history of running from his problems and relationships as far as the other side of the planet. But when he finally returns home and is introduced to budding journalist Rose Tyler, the one girl worth staying for, is she enough for him to finally put his running days behind him? AU, TenxRose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. on the highway I will run

**Author's Note:**

> Some people may have seen this on Teaspoon already, but as I'm new to AO3 I'm now uploading it here! I'll put a new chapter up every couple of days, then hopefully by the time I catch up here I'll have the new chapter already finished. :D 'Nyways, hope you guys enjoy and let me know whatcha think!

John Smith was running. 

His trainers slammed into the pavement propelling him forward at breakneck speed, though he barely felt the need to pause for breath. Out here in the pouring rain on a December night with the temperature hurtling towards absolute zero he felt far less constricted than the place he was running from. He ignored the way stamping in puddles sent large splashes of mud all over his already soaking tux, hating the damn thing the longer he wore it. He tore off his tie as he ran and hurled it into the road, barely slipping on an icy patch of concrete as he did so. 

He just couldn’t breathe in there. He couldn’t think. _Think think think think think!_ He knew exactly what he was doing and he knew he shouldn’t be doing it, but running was the most natural thing in the world. He’d done it before; it was as easy as riding a bike. Once learnt, and in his case perfected, never forgotten. 

This was what Rose had been afraid of. 

And he’d let her down. 

With that heart-wrenching thought, guilt washed over him and he stumbled, his foot catching on an outcropped bit of pavement. He crashed to the ground in a mess of tangled limbs and groaned, now lying on his back completely sodden through, winded, and with no idea where he was. Mother of God, why couldn’t he have been _normal?_ He never should have tried to fight this, it was clearly futile attempting to war with the most fundamental parts of his personality. Although, of course, he knew why he’d tried. _Rose_.

“I’m so sorry.” He covered his face with his hands, blocking out his view of the stars. He’d often dreamt of travelling through them, skimming along the lines of old familiar constellations and sating that hungry animal inside of him that yearned for adventure. That yearned to _run_. Not to mention that recently, in his imaginations, he hadn’t been alone standing on those completely new worlds because she’d been there too. And now he’d left her. “Can’t,” he panted as he sat up, “can’t breathe.” 

He fumbled with the top buttons of his shirt but couldn’t open them, so with a growl of frustration he simply ripped it and let it fall open, a button pinging off into the road. How had he let everything become so messed up? How had he become so deeply involved in _her?_ He wanted to yell out and cry and run away and run all the way _back_ all at once, leaving him frozen, stranded in the biting cold and the rain and no idea what to do next. 

“You ‘right, mate?” came a slurred voice from a few feet away. John turned and saw a man a few paces away wavering dangerously on his feet, a bottle of Kronenbourg hanging loosely from one hand. 

“Fine,” he croaked out, wiping some of the water from his eyes. It was all a mess of rain and something salty he couldn’t pinpoint the source of. 

“Oh,” said the drunkard, as if expecting a different answer. John idly wondered if the man would have offered a helping hand if he’d said otherwise, and hesitated to think just how ‘helpful’ it might’ve been. “D’ya knows the way to Akhaten Park?” 

John frowned. Maybe if he ignored him the other man would leave him alone. 

“The rain’s stopped in Akhaten Park,” the drunk continued loudly, apparently in a talkative mood. “Wanna come?”

“I don’t know where it is,” he bit out, using the iron fence at the front of the terrace he’d fallen beside to pull himself back to his feet. 

Drunk looked astounded by this, staring at him as if he’d dribbled on his shirt. “Where you goin’ then?” 

John pushed his hair out of his eyes. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. 

Drunk pressed a hand to his forehead as if he were contemplating all of the world’s problems. “If you want out the rain,” he finally informed him, “you follow me to Akhaten Park, okay?”

“Fine,” John muttered, just wanting to be rid of him and beginning to walk in the opposite direction. The drunk yelled something in his wake but John didn’t bother listening, too wrapped up in whatever the hell he was or was not doing.

It was a reasonably short street spanning in both directions, identical terraces on either side similar to almost every other residential area in London, providing him with no clues as to how far he’d run or where he’d ended up. It was all a bit of a blur past leaving the hall, just rain and speed and needing to be out of that stifling atmosphere. It had been showering on and off all day before the heavens had finally opened, and the drains at the side of the road were just beginning to overflow. 

His shoes squelched uncomfortably and he looked down; the canvas of the white (now a rather speckled murky colour) converses left much to be desired on a day like this, and the thin layers of his dress shirt and blazer provided little protection from the elements, something he was just now beginning to feel as the adrenaline receded and his nerves began to feel the cold. He shivered; he was completely soaked through. In a show of frustration he plucked the now drooping white rose from his lapel and threw it to the ground.

At that moment his pocket began to buzz, and he marvelled at the fact that his mobile was still working given how flooded his entire suit jacket felt. He didn’t even bother to check the caller ID to see who would be calling him this late on a Monday, or rather, this early on a Tuesday, when there were a very limited number of people it could be. 

“John Smith,” he managed to get out, ducking under the overhang of one of the houses to get out of the rain. 

“Where the hell _are_ you?!” 

John winced at the sharpness of the question and the irrefutable thunder in his tone. Not to mention the clear American accent; Jack. Now he was definitely in trouble. Still, his current location was something he couldn’t afford to give right now, especially to Jack Harkness, or he’d be picked up off the street and hauled back to where he came from in a matter of minutes. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he lied, “Akhaten Park.” 

“Where even is that?” He could feel the bemusement in Jack’s tone – considering how well the man knew London John wondered if it was even a real place. 

“What do you want, Jack?” John sighed, knowing perfectly well what he wanted. “It’s two in the morning. I could have been having the greatest wedded sex of my life right now.” 

“Don’t play games with me, John; I’m not in the mood. Rose told me you took off in the middle of the reception.” He paused for a moment. “Not to mention if you were picking up the phone during the greatest sex of your life, you definitely weren’t doing it right. And planting the image of you nailing my sister in my mind really isn’t the right way to change the subject.”

John swallowed nervously. “I—I needed some air.”

“Magic air that can only be found at this Akhaten Park, I assume?” He didn’t reply. “She came and found me because she was freaking out. Said you ducked out of the first dance and left her by saying ‘Rose Tyler I.’ Rose Tyler I _what_ , John? ‘I’m impotent’? ‘I need pizza’?”

“Jack,” John warned.

“Correct me, then. Tell me how that sentence was going to end.” 

John ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t know!”

The disapproving tut on the other end of the line didn’t do much to help his mood. “I thought we’d finally beaten this, John.”

“I married her, didn’t I?” John scowled, irate at Jack’s tone. “I stood at the altar and said ‘I do’, what more do you want from me?”

“Oh, I don’t know, to stay with her? ‘Love and cherish ‘til death do you part’ ring any bells?”

“You know it’s not that easy for me,” John snapped. “It’s—it’s—I can’t. Okay? I just can’t. I can’t live that life, I can’t do it.” He paused. “I won’t. I mean, I don’t want to.” 

“Yes, you do.” Jack’s voice was softer now, patient, “I know you. You love her, and you’ve worked way too hard to just cut and run now.” 

John didn’t want to answer that; he didn’t even want to have that conversation. His every instinct was urging him to just hang up and keep running; goading him into falling into the old habits he’d been trying so hard to fight. It took every shred of loyalty he felt towards his oldest friend to keep him on the line.

“What did you tell the guests?” he asked instead, that old guilt resurfacing and threatening to consume him. 

Jack sighed. “That you got a huge migraine and went home to recover for the honeymoon.” 

John snorted derisively. “There’s no way I’m going on the honeymoon.”

“Damnit, John!” the tinny voice on the other end growled, “it’s barely even one! It’s just a bloody weekend in Scotland!” 

The conversation was so hot and cold, but John could feel his own anger boiling. “Don’t get tetchy with me, alright? You know all the shit I’ve been through for you and for—“ his voice cracked, “and for her just so I can _do_ this, and it took a hell of a lot for me to get that far! I looked her in the eye in front of every single one of our friends and told her I wanted to marry her, and I bloody well _did_ it, alright? So please,” he rubbed his free hand over his tired eyes. “Please just leave me alone.” 

“John, I know.” He could tell Jack was trying to force down his irritation, “I’ve been helping you and supporting you a hundred and ten percent, you know I have, but it’s still my sister I’m watching drink alone at her wedding reception. It’s still _Rose_. I can’t pick between you and I can’t pick for you so you’ve got to work out what you want.” 

That hit home. John winced and slumped down onto the doorstep under the overhang; that was the brunt of it. Rose didn’t deserve this. God, she could be a bitch sometimes but—but really, she wasn’t. That was just him doing what he always did and looking for a negative about her that wasn’t there. He took a moment to go over one of the many exercises he’d been through with Doctor Jones, mentally listing all of Rose’s good qualities and all the reasons he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. She was beautiful, caring, compassionate; spunky, witty, more than a match for him. 

She was also alone at that moment. At their wedding reception. Scrap that exercise, it just made him feel worse. 

Jack started speaking again. “I helped you and I supported you because you said you wanted this, don’t bail on her now.” A pregnant pause. “You do want this, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” he replied without hesitation. “Yes. Yes, I want this. I mean, I think I do. I don’t—Jack this is _hard_. I don’t know what to do!” 

“Want me to tell you what I think you should do?” 

John gave a resigned sigh. “Do I get a choice?”

“You should get your sorry ass back here and finish that sentence the way we both know it ends. You’ve just got to believe in yourself as much as I believe in you. You can do this.” 

A few more moments in which John didn’t reply, then the line went dead in his hand. He dropped the phone back into his pocket and buried his face in his hands. He shouldn’t have allowed things to get this far, shouldn’t have overestimated his abilities when it came to this particular part of his life. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

Finally he re-emerged from the overhang to step back into the downpour, and found his gaze caught by the trampled white rose he’d thrown down mere minutes earlier, watching the colour run with the water dribbling across the pavement into the drains. As a staple part of the groom’s outfit he felt he couldn’t really return without it, but the simple matter of how much he actually _wanted_ to return remained uncertain in his mind, his indecision hovering over him beneath the blanket of the dark sky. 

John stared at the rose, thinking. The rose stared back. 

****

o-o-o

__  
**12 Months Earlier**  


John couldn’t be more grateful that he’d learned to travel lightly as he watched a young woman struggling with a couple of hand bags and a bulking suitcase on wheels down the aisle of the plane, barely succeeding in stopping herself from tripping up along the way. It amazed him that she’d managed to get all that on board within the standard size parameters for hand luggage, especially since she was clearly having some trouble. All he ever needed was his single rucksack; somehow he always managed to fit everything he wanted to take into the tattered old blue thing, and it was small enough to allow easy passage on a plane in his overhead compartment; which was convenient for him, seeing as it gave him easy access to his journal and writing implements. He’d often imagined that the pockets of that little pack were almost dimensionally transcendental (a term he’d coined for his own amusement that he’d decided meant ‘bigger on the inside’). 

It felt strange to finally be disembarking on somewhat familiar ground after such a long time of being away, but he tried not to dwell on it. It wasn’t as if it were permanent, obviously. He just needed a place to stop for a few months to gather some funds so he could be on the move again, and his home city of London had seemed like the most logical choice considering he knew a few people who would put him up temporarily for a reduced rate. 

Eventually John decided to put the poor woman in front of him out of her misery as they emerged from the plane, and offered to carry her suitcase for her. After giving him a measured look she gratefully accepted, introducing herself to him as Amelia Williams. 

“John Smith,” he returned with a smile. 

“Enjoy Burma, then?” she asked in an impeccable Scottish brogue. “You strike me as one of those lone wolf hipster backpacking types.”

“You’re very perceptive,” John laughed.

“The rucksack somewhat speaks for itself, I’m afraid to say.” 

John adjusted his grip on the handle of her suitcase. “I suppose you could call it backpacking. Well, more like aimless wandering. I’m a writer, actually.” He offered her a side along grin. “Not a good one, mind. Just one of those stereotypical angsty unsuccessful tortured artist types.” 

Amelia laughed as they stepped into the queue for border control. “Too busy soul searching to appreciate the sights?” 

“That’s me.” They chuckled for a few moments as they shuffled forwards. “And what about you, Miss Williams?”

“ _Mrs_ Williams,” she corrected. 

“Mrs Williams,” he amended dutifully. “No, wait, don’t tell me. Large impractical suitcase, sunglasses, vague attempt at a tan; you must be a vacationer. With the giddy expression in reference to the lucky groom my first instinct would be returning from your honeymoon, but considering I’m carrying your bags instead of the gentleman in question..?” He let it hang in the air. 

“Alright Sherlock, down boy.” She raised an eyebrow. “He’s staying out for an extra week for research. He’s a nurse, actually. Specializes in tropical diseases or something and couldn’t resist the chance to get a close up look at the causes. Although there are only a few things more romantic than malaria and haemorragic fevers, I decided to head home early. I’ll be honest, it’s all a bit over my head.” 

“Do I sense a bone of contention?” 

“Barely, Mr Smith.” She rolled her eyes good naturedly. “He’s just way smarter than I am. What about you? No blushing bride waiting for you in London?”

“No, no,” he waved her off with a frown, “I’m hardly the marrying type.”

It felt remarkably easy to slip into a teasing companionship with the red-haired woman, and they remained in conversation about their escapades in Burma all the way through baggage control (where John surrendered her suitcase to a baggage trolley she picked up with all her other luggage) and customs, until it was finally time to part ways. 

It wasn’t a surprising circumstance for John; he seemed to have a gift for befriending strangers across his travels – in fact, it wasn’t completely uncommon for him to gain travelling companions he was barely acquainted with for various legs of his journey. Some far more useful than others; Peri had nearly gotten him killed in Malaysia when a snake she’d assured him was completely harmless had stuck him in hospital for three weeks recovering from some poison called spectrox toxaemia. Suffice to say they’d parted company soon after that. Whereas Jamie, on the other hand, had been invaluable while trekking across Scandinavia, and he’d been sorry to see him go. Apparently travelling with John made him convinced he was forgetting something important.

They swapped phone numbers with vague promises to meet up for coffee sometime because the last hour had been enjoyable, although John doubted it would happen. He wasn’t usually one to keep dates. It was only when she yelled his name as he was hailing for a cab and he turned back around that he realised quite how determined Amelia Williams was when it came to keeping friends. 

“Listen, I know this may be a bit forward of me, but I work as an Editor for the Gallifrey Chronicle—travel section generally, I deal with all our freelance writers and photographers. All the tortured artist types.” The corner of his mouth perked up. “If you are, as you said, stuck in London for a while and have nothing to do, you’re not half as boring as most of the people I get walking through my department.”

“Careful, that was almost a compliment,” he replied and she batted a flippant hand. “Thank you, though. I’ll, erm, I’ll check my diary.”

“Don’t mess me around, raggedy man.” She pointed a stern finger at him. “You’ll call me within the next three days with your answer, got it?”

John mimed a mock salute. “Yes ma’am.” She was kind, this Amelia Williams. A bit brash and not always polite, but pleasant enough company. Not to mention her offer was incredibly generous, especially given the short amount of time they’d known each other – he hadn’t really thought about getting a job, but then he supposed he would need to if he was intending on staying in London for longer than a few weeks. 

He stared at her contact details on his phone thoughtfully, before finally hailing down a taxi and clambering inside. 

“The Thames Agency, please.” 

****

o-o-o

It was showering lightly when they finally pulled up outside the tourist office, so John looked suitably out of place in his shorts and sunglasses and shivered a little, not used to the cold temperatures of a typical early January day. Still, he’d just returned from Burma, and Jack Harkness was used to him looking far stranger than this.

He’d first met his old friend through his elder cousin, Donna, when she started working at the Thames Agency. It was a reasonably small but charming tourist centre, with three buses providing tours of the sights and one boat that departed twice a day and sailed a few miles upriver and back. It wasn’t the flashiest of businesses, but it had a quaint kind of countenance that made it an unforgettable experience; back when John had been living in London permanently he’d often taken the tours to try and trigger a little inspiration for his writing. In fact its classic almost old-fashioned style leant it the nickname ‘The Time Agency’ from the locals. 

The man in charge of the agency was a certain Jack Harkness, or _Captain_ Jack Harkness as he preferred with reference to the single boat (the _Boe_ ) owned by the company, a passionate and carefree American who’d hit it off with John since the first day they met over five years ago. He could only be grateful that Donna never minded him being best friends with her boss, and the three of them got on well together. Or at least they had, but seeing as he hadn’t seen either of them in almost two years and had kept his contact with his old life reasonably sparse, he wasn’t a hundred percent sure what to expect. 

Wanting to get out of the rain he decided to bite the bullet and head inside. The office was just as small as he remembered, but a little cleaner than he was used to. Gone were the swathes of magazines covering every surface and the messily tacked up maps of London to be replaced by sharper cut ones laminated behind glass boards. The desk at the end was empty, but he allowed an affectionate smile at the tiny bell he’d bought Jack for his birthday once still sitting proudly worn on top of the counter.

John tapped it enthusiastically and the _ding_ echoed through into the back rooms, and while he waited examined the timetable on the wall. It was almost exactly the same as it was before. 

It was only a few minutes before the door behind the counter opened, and the familiar tall form of Jack Harkness emerged, his back turned as he spoke to another man with spiky blond hair; an employee, by the looks of his uniform. 

“The Thames Agency, how can I—?” Jack froze the moment he turned and recognised the stranger taking his sunglasses off and grinning broadly. “You absolute _bastard!_ ” Jack yelled gleefully, jumping clean over the counter to pull him into a large hug. “You didn’t tell me you were coming back! Two damn years you bloody idiot!” 

“Twenty months,” John corrected with a wheeze, trying to extricate himself from the American’s embrace. 

“That doesn’t change the fact that I can count the number of messages I got from you on one hand.” Jack drew back and gave him a stern look. “How were we supposed to know you were even still _alive?_ ”

“I didn’t get much reception the places I was going. Well, in some of them I did, but I was screening your calls.” John’s secretive smile only succeeded in widening Jack’s grin. 

“It’s so good to see you, John. Even if you are a bastard. Oh,” he turned and cleared his throat gesturing for the other man to step forward. “Jake, this is John Smith, the man who wrote the travel brochure for the agency.” At John’s smirk he added, “Arrogant sod. John meet Jake Simmonds, he started a few months after you left. One of the best guides we’ve got, your cousin notwithstanding.” 

“Pleasure.” John smiled and shook his hand. 

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Smith.” 

John raised an eyebrow. Jack was quick to change the subject. “You need a shave.” 

“I need a _shower_ ,” John groaned. “And, erm, a place to stay for a bit. I was wondering if I could move back in for a few weeks? Or, you know, months? Some indeterminate period of time?” He scratched his ear and shrugged off his rucksack, letting the tattered blue thing fall to the ground. It seemed silly to lug it around when he was just standing still. At the resume of casual conversation between the two friends Jake backed off, and went to continue the account checking he’d been doing with Jack prior to the other man’s arrival.

Jack looked uncomfortable at the request, and John blinked in surprise. He hadn’t considered the possibility of Jack not being able to put him up. “I... I don’t really have room anymore, John.” 

“What?”

“Hey, you were gone for two years!” 

“Twenty months.”

“That’s two years too long for me to live alone, you know I hate it.” He shrugged. “I got a roommate.” 

John’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“Mickey Smith,” Jack replied, daring him to make a comment. 

His friend winced. “You are _kidding_. Tell me Mickey Smith is _not_ living in my old room.” Jack didn’t answer. “I didn’t realise idiots were your type.” 

“I’m not dating him, John,” Jack retorted, “and I know you don’t think much of him but he’s a nice guy. Reliable. He does really good work on the _Boe_ for a reduced rate which really helps us out.” 

John grimaced. “He butters his toast before he toasts it.” 

“And you get off on camping around the world and ignoring basic personal hygiene,” Jack pointed out as he moved past John and handed something to Jake. “Nobody’s perfect.”

John leaned against the counter and ran a hand through his hair. “What about all my stuff?”

“It’s in storage. Sorry, John, I didn’t know what to do with it. Hell, I wasn’t sure if you were even _coming_ back, after all that stuff with—“

John waved a hand for him to shut up. “What am I supposed to do?” 

“You could always ask Donna.” Jack shrugged apologetically. “Or Harry. I’m sorry,” he continued in a lower voice, “it’s just that things have changed.”

He should have anticipated this; of course he couldn’t have expected his life in London to remain in stasis while he went cavorting over the other side of the world, and this was like a bucket of ice cold water had been poured over him. The reality check he probably needed.

“Wait,” Jack looked at his best friend before turning to stare at his employee working dutifully in the corner. “Jake, aren’t you looking for a roommate?” 

“Er.” Suddenly pulled into the conversation Jake floundered for a moment, looking at John. “Um, yeah. I am.” 

“Well, why not take John? He’s great, and the chances are he won’t be here long.” Jack shot John a teasing glare along with this statement. “So if you hate him he’ll soon be out of your artfully gelled hair.” 

“My old flatmate just got married and I can’t afford to pay the whole rent,” Jake elaborated to John before breaking out into a grin. “And you come pretty highly recommended. What do you think, Mr. Smith?”

John was still a little thrown by Jack rooming with someone else, and didn’t quite share their enthusiasm at having apparently found the perfect solution. Still, Jake seemed nice, and he _did_ still need somewhere to go. “Sure. But only if you call me ‘the Doctor’.” 

Jack groaned. Jake looked between the pair of them in confusion. 

“What?” John beamed. “I have a PhD. I’ve always wanted someone to call me Doctor.” 

“Please, ignore him.” Jack waved it away with a snort. 

Jake was a good natured man, though, and played along. “Well then, _Doctor_ ,” he held out a hand for him to shake, which John took gratefully. “Welcome aboard.”

****

o-o-o

“No, no, I know. Of course I didn’t slap him, what am I, his jilted girlfriend? That’s not funny. Not even close to funny. Say that again? No Donna, talking about cutting a shift to go smack your cousin is not something you say to your boss, no matter how dashingly handsome he is.”

Jack laughed to his mobile at the animated chattering on the other side of the line. “Finish your tour, then I’ll let you go home early. No, he’s staying at Jake’s. Came traipsing on back here asking to have his old room back as if he’d never left, it’s unbelievable.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know. Even so, it just felt so good to have him back. I’ve missed his stupid face. I’m just worried he won’t like how different things are now.”

There was something else weighing on his mind though, which he hesitated to propose to his friend. “If you do go see him later, could you... not mention anything about Rose? It’s just, you know what he does to women—yes, Donna, I know he doesn’t mean it, but he still _does_ it. I don’t want that to happen to Rose, she deserves better. Yeah. Of course I can’t hide her, I just—I just want to introduce her to him the right way, ideally in a perfectly platonic unchangeable setting. I don’t trust John to leave her alone otherwise, he’s all about _carpe diem_ and all that.” 

Jack snorted at some choice words uttered by the cousin of the man in question about her dear family. “But we love him. Yeah, thanks, I really appreciate it. Now get back to work, you slacker, or I’ll call your boss. Oh, shut up. Bye.” 

He placed the phone back on the counter and eyed the bell resting there cautiously. It wasn’t wrong for him to want the best for the girl who was practically his sister, was it? Perhaps it was wrong for him to consider his best friend exactly _not_ that. Either way, he felt guilty for the request he’d put to Donna. Although to be fair to his judgement, the last time he was aware of John’s serious involvement with a girl it had sent him halfway round the globe for two years (twenty months) in an attempt to escape her. 

Could any of them help it that John Smith was completely, utterly and irrevocably commitment phobic?


	2. every time you turn around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another flash-forward to the wedding and an introduction to Rose as John almost literally stumbles into meeting her for the first time. Thanks for all the feedback on the first chapter!

**The Wedding, 2:12am**

Rose tapped her fingers on the bar top and stared, unseeing, at the rest of the reception unfolding in front of her. Guests were dancing and laughing, happily celebrating what they thought was a joyous union between John Smith and herself, though Rose wasn’t so sure about that. How could she be when she hadn’t seen the groom in over an hour? It didn’t really feel like her reception; she hadn’t even danced with her husband. It was with this same sense of detachment that she downed the rest of her flute of champagne with a tired sigh. 

“Getting drunk, though thoroughly enjoyable, won’t help anyone,” a voice from beside her said. Rose turned her head and saw Donna had joined her at the bar. 

“I dunno,” she muttered glumly, “I’m all out of ideas. Maybe John would stay for a woman who was a binge drinking alcoholic?” 

“He’d stay for _you._ ” 

Rose snorted. “He’s going the right way about it.” This wasn’t the way she’d planned it. Of course, she’d known him doing a runner was a very real possibility, but she’d meant to be patient and understanding and gently coaxing him back to her side to work their way back to that forever they’d promised each other. Instead she’d just finished her third glass of champagne and was celebrating the fact that she hadn’t completely broken down the moment he left the room. 

She’d been thrown completely off balance – though he had a habit of doing that even without a wedding and the theatrics to go with it. He’d made it through the entire ceremony and she’d mistakenly thought they were in the clear and let her guard down. The photos had been a bit strained, albeit, but she didn’t expect the dancing to be the thing to throw him over the edge. When his expression had morphed into that same one she was familiar with at the prospect, that pure, unadulterated terror, she knew. 

All she’d been able to say was a reassuring, “I _love_ you.” 

He’d swallowed. “Rose Tyler, I—“ he’d cut himself off, words clearly resting in his open mouth but remaining unsaid. Then he’d kissed her reverently on the cheek and departed the room as swiftly as he could get away with without running. 

“At least he married you. You’ve got a one up on River in that respect,” Donna sighed, placing her clutch on the counter and ordering a beer. “And he loves you, that’s for sure.” 

Rose didn’t know what was so sure about it. 

“I think Jack’s got him on the phone, actually,” Donna continued.

“Oh yeah?” Rose turned to look at her cousin-in-law again. “What’s he saying?”

“Dunno. Probably trying to kick his arse into gear and make him realise this is where he should be.” 

Rose ran a hand through her hair, not caring that she was running the carefully clipped up-do that had seemed so important that morning. “I just—was it wrong for me to think I was different to everybody else? That he wouldn’t run from me? We’ve been through so much together, I guess I just figured...” She trailed off, biting her lip. 

“You _are_ different, Rose, believe me,” Donna laid a hand on hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “He stood up there and said his vows, and I’m convinced it was the hardest thing he’s ever done, but he did it for you.” Rose felt a stinging sensation behind her eyes that she hurried to blink away. “And let’s not forget, he’s coming back.”

Rose gave her a disbelieving look. 

“What? If he doesn’t come on his own we both know I’m going to bloody well make him.” 

Her friend smiled weakly. “Thanks, Donna. I’m so glad you’re here.” 

“Always, sweetheart.” She patted her hand brightly. “And look, here’s Jack. So Captain, how many rounds are we putting in your revolver?” 

“None, ideally,” Jack replied, uncharacteristically sober as he slid his mobile back into his pocket. “I think he’ll come back on his own. He’s just a bit confused, that’s all—he wants this, he told me that much. He just doesn’t know how to have it.” Jack placed an arm around Rose’s shoulders and pressed a soft kiss to her temple. “How you doing, sis?”

She shrugged. “About as well as can be expected. I just keep wondering if maybe you were right.”

His eyebrows knitted together. “About what?”

“About not getting involved with him. That I was stupid thinking I could change him.” 

Jack’s expression shifted into a stern frown. “Don’t you _dare_ start thinking that—I was the one who was wrong and I accepted that wholeheartedly. You’re one of the best things to have ever happened to him, and vice versa. I mean, look at you!” He gestured to her in her dress and she couldn’t help but feel warmer inside at his beaming pride. “You’re a _legend_ in the journalism world, and you never would have gotten that Skaro story without John. And you look gorgeous in white.” The corner of her mouth perked upward despite herself. “And him? He finally finished that bloody book he’s been working on for only God knows how long. So don’t you start lamenting about how you two should never have met, because I won’t have it.”

“Plus, he’s coming back,” Donna pointed out in a sing-song voice, before adding in a whisper, “or we’ll make him.” 

“Ugh,” Rose knotted her hand in a fistful of her hair. “I promised I wouldn’t get mopey if this happened. What am I supposed to do, Jack?”

“Why is everyone asking me that?” Jack raised a bewildered eyebrow. “But you, I know the answer to. You’re going to come dance with your big brother, celebrate the fact that you married the man you love and help me plan different ways for killing him should he kick up a fuss about domestic life. Sound good?”

Rose smiled, the first genuine one in an hour, and took his outstretched hand. “Sounds perfect.” 

****

o-o-o

**Twelve Months Earlier**

“They have to be the _most_ privileged puppies in the _whole_ of London. Nay, the world! I said to my husband I _always_ said, one day all that money we put into them is going to get us _famous_. And here you are! Now, I dressed Bessie in her best yellow bow—here, see?—and Margaret in this charming pink scarf. The appliqué is just _darling;_ you simply must come over and see.” 

Silence. 

“Miss Tyler?”

Startled from her reverie Rose jumped, causing her notebook to slide from her lap onto the marble floor and she hurried to pick it up. “Sorry, sorry about that, you lost me for a moment.” The affronted look of the older woman in front of her had Rose sporting her most charming grin. “I’ve been absolutely _captured_ by the pattern on your curtains, where did you get them?” The woman’s frown immediately vanished as she launched into a riveting tale about a trip to the tailors with her husband a few months prior that Rose ignored but nodded for in all the right places. It was unbelievable how easy it was to distract the upper classes.

Lady Cassandra O’Brien had to be the most boring woman in existence. Well, perhaps she’d seen worse, but she definitely made it into Rose’s top ten. For the past hour she’d sat in the woman’s lavish lounge interviewing her about the many luxuries the ungodly amount of money she boasted bought for her two bichon frises, Bessie and Margaret, but it only took fifteen minutes for Rose to want to shoot herself in the head. 

She’d come to London hoping to finally _make_ it in journalism after graduating from university and spending a particularly unfruitful year at a small newspaper in Cardiff. When she reached the end of her internship and realised the most interesting story she’d written about was the Mayor’s inconceivable gas problem and its penchant for interrupting important press releases, she decided it was time to get out. Packing up and moving back to her home town of London had seemed like the best decision of her life. She’d miraculously almost immediately landed a job at the Gallifrey Chronicle, was getting to spend far more time with her old friends and family and things finally, _finally_ seemed to be coming up Rose.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t anticipated the temperament of her new boss.

_Yvonne Bloody Hartman._

She’d made “local press” sound so nitty-gritty and exciting in the interview, especially considering it was based in the heart of London, but Rose realised far too late that it was simply code for “domestics on page twenty-seven”, and for some inexplicable reason it was always _her_ stuck on the dull stories while the others in her department headed for the front line. 

“I’ll just go fetch their carrier; they prefer it _so_ much to walking, don’t you darlings? Won’t be a moment, dear.” Lady Cassandra tittered in her direction as she swept from the room and it took all of Rose’s willpower to not throw the notebook at the older woman’s retreating form. 

Front line? _Flat_ line, more like. 

One of the dogs sat up and tilted its head at her, whining softly. 

“You and me both, Barbie.” She huffed out a breath and blew some of her blonde hair from her face. “Next time if you get the matches, I’ll bring the beer. I’m sure we could make something pretty amazing together.” She leaned back in her chair and clicked her tongue. “And incinerate some of them ghastly clothes in the process.” Rose was never one for dogs in bows – her mum had always been fond, but it wasn’t something that had captured her daughter’s heart. 

“Here we are!” trilled the unmistakable voice of Lady Cassandra as she returned, a frilly white pram being pushed in front of her. “It’s marvellous, don’t you think?”

Rose smiled weakly. 

She was twenty-three now, for Pete’s sake. If she didn’t get her breakthrough story within the next year she swore to herself she’d get the hell out of doge and work in a shop or something. It might even be worth it so she’d never have to see Yvonne’s perfectly coiffed locks again. If only she could change jobs like before; but after only eighteen months of being at the Chronicle she’d be marked as unreliable, ambitious beyond her means and unhirable. The local press department of the Gallifrey Chronicle had her exactly where they wanted her. Which was, unfortunately, diligently taking notes about Lady Cassandra O’Brien’s little darlings and doing her very best to seem interested. 

Fooling Lady Cassandra was easy; she’d had months of practice. 

An hour later after finally being released from the aristocrat’s clutches with an empty promise to meet up socially and talk more about Bessie and Margaret, Rose was delaying returning to the offices in favour of regaining some of her sanity. 

“Mickey,” she begged, once her friend had picked up the phone, “please meet me for lunch. I’m dying here.” 

Mickey was always there when she was in a bind, which was such a relief. Always prepared to just drop whatever he was doing and help her out; on a tit-for-tat scale, she probably owed him a hundred dirty chai lattes. At least she bought the chips. 

“I swear to God, if Yvonne sends me after one more pointless story I’m just going to march into her office and wring her neck,” she growled, giving him some change and accepting the drink he brought her from the Starbucks he passed on the way, as was the usual routine. The pair of them had wasted many an hour in Mott’s Diner recovering from the hassles and irritancies of work, taking leisurely long lunch breaks and laughing over chips. Well, Rose would laugh over chips, Mickey usually bought a packet crisps. He wasn’t exactly a fan. 

“You said that last time,” Mickey pointed out, “when she wanted you to look at that seven foot Victoria sponge?” 

“That thing was a monster,” she muttered, “but I’m serious this time, Micks, I swear. I’m fed up of being handed all the small-time cases just because she’s clearly got something against me. I haven’t been near a politician or even a press release in _months_.” She threw down a chip with particular force.

Mickey shrugged, munching on some crisps as he did so. “Rose, you hate that job. Why don’cha you just quit?” 

“I can’t,” she sighed wistfully. “Papers are petty and like to spread rumours. Nowhere would hire me unless I moved out of town, and I don’t want to do that again. Plus, I like being here in London with you and Jack. It’s like old times back on the estate—just with more stress and less food fights.” Back when the three of them had grown up together, marching around the burbs of London like self-proclaimed Kings of the Kingdom. Mickey threw a crisp at her in response. “Can’t imagine a week without seeing your stupid mug at least twice now.” 

A slow smile dawned on Mickey’s features. “Yeah?” he asked, sounding uncertain. 

“Yeah,” she agreed. A fond moment passed between them before he moved the subject along. 

“We would come visit, you know,” Mickey pointed out, “like that time Jack went—“

“Oh God, when Jack came down to Cardiff because that Jimmy Stone was trying to rough me up?” Although it had been a scary time for her she’d been out of university for years now and was past dwelling on the likes of that scumbag; she’d made it to the stage where she could laugh at how foolish she’d been. “It sure helps when you’ve got a bloke five years your senior acting like your big brother prepared to beat up all the nasty buggers that come near you.” 

“Jimmy Stone was more than nasty. If I didn’t have a job that actually needed me there I would’a been on the train right with Jack.” Her friend nodded determinedly. 

A teasing smile pulled at the corner of her mouth, her tongue poking lightly out on one side. “Not sure you would’ve quite had the same effect, Micks.” 

“Eh?” His indignant look was priceless. 

“You haven’t got quite the same...” she searched for the right word, “ _presence_ as he does.”

“You saying I’m not intimidating?” 

“I’m saying you probably couldn’t have hit him as hard as Jack did,” she finished dryly. “I don’t think Jimmy was walking for days after. It was quite something.”

It had been a very insecure part of her life. The first and only time her university boyfriend, Jimmy Stone, had sent a punch her way she’d ducked it and run out of there as fast as she could. She’d never considered herself the kind of girl who’d remain involved with a man like that, but minutes after her escape she’d started to feel frightened over what had almost occurred. As a strong and empowered woman she rarely looked to men to fight her battles, but the complete surprise of the situation had shaken her to the core. She’d felt so alone all the way in Cardiff and needed desperately to talk to someone; by the time she was on the phone to Jack Harkness, the man who’d always been like a brother to her, she was sobbing without abandon and could barely get the words out. 

Jack had been on the next train out.

After confronting the bastard he’d then stayed with her for a few days, making sure she was alright and taking care of her as one would a wounded animal. She’d apologised innumerable times for taking him from London because of her problems, but he’d reassured her owning the Thames Agency made leaving it for a few days easier – not to mention any problem of hers was a problem of his. 

“We’re family,” he’d said, so resolutely and clearly that even after all those years of knowing him through childhood and claiming it was so, it was the first time she’d truly believed it. 

“Anyway,” Rose pushed on, changing the subject. “Been moaning about me all morning. Anything interesting going on in Smith-land?” 

Mickey frowned. “Funny you should say, actually. I got a text from Jack this morning, that mate of his he used to live with is back in town. Apparently he’s pissed I got his old room.” If he was trying to keep the smugness from his tone, he didn’t do a very good job of it. 

“Oh yeah?” Rose’s interest was piqued. No one ever really mentioned that much about Jack’s mysterious friend, as if the subject was taboo. All she knew was he and Mickey didn’t get along, and one day he upped and went travelling – hell, she didn’t even know his name. “He shouldn’t have done the disappearing act then, should he?” Still, she was curious. “What’s his name?”

“John Smith,” Mickey replied before giving her a bemused look, “have we never told you that?” 

Rose shrugged. “He was around before I moved back to London. I don’t really know anything about him.” 

“Yeah, well he’s a wanker so you ain’t missing much.” 

She simply made a non-committal noise as she ate her last chip, chewing thoughtfully. Mickey was the kind of guy whose pride was easily wounded, and the only passing comments Jack had made about John Smith were always complimentary and warm. While he was still in town she’d have to see if Jack could introduce them and she could at least make some sort of judgement for herself. 

After a few moments of silence, Mickey cleared his throat. “Listen, uh, Rose, I was wondering—if you aren’t doing anything, I mean—if this evening you felt like going out for—“ 

“Oh, _shit!_ ” she yelped, realising the screen of her phone had lit up 

“—Dinner? Uh, what?”

Rose was frantically pressing buttons. “Yvonne knows I’ve bailed on Lady Cassandra, you know she hates it when I take long lunches. Ugh, she’ll keep me so late tonight finishing my draft for this bloody story now!”

“That’s a no then,” Mickey muttered. 

“A no to what, sorry?” Rose looked back up. “Did you ask me something?”

He shook his head. “Nothing, babe.” Standing up, he began clearing up all the clutter and she rushed to help. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this,” he reassured her, “get back to work ‘fore you start tying nooses in your sleep.” She gave him a grateful smile and a kiss on the cheek, and all but sprinted from the Diner in the direction of her offices. 

“One day, Mickey Smith, she might pay attention when you ask her out.” He dropped the wrapping glumly into the bin as he shrugged on his coat. “S’always tomorrow.”

****

o-o-o

Jake’s apartment was nice. Honestly, it was nice. It was spacious, organised, and clean; equipped with all the amenities he could possibly desire in a slightly more permanent home than the ones he’d been used to over the past year, and the hot shower was a warm relief after the long flight. That was exactly _it_ though, wasn’t it? It was _nice_. It didn’t exactly have much character to it, but then he’d been preparing himself for Jack Harkness’ organised chaos rather than Jake Simmonds’ neat-and-orderly. It was suitable, yes, a home? Not for him. At least, not yet. He’d barely given it a fair trial having only been there for a couple of hours. Jack had generously allowed Jake to bunk off work early in order to try and get John settled in with what little belongings he had on him. A trip to the warehouses to collect his furniture could be done tomorrow.

“Rory Williams,” he enunciated loudly as he padded into the living room a couple of hours clad only in his dressing gown after his shower. In his hand he held a brass plaque with the name emblazoned across it. “I found this in my room. Your old roommate?” 

Jake looked up from the TV and raised an eyebrow. “Have we known each other long enough for me to comment on the bathrobe?”

“What’s wrong with it?” John protested indignantly. “I love mauve!” 

His new roommate simply arched an eyebrow and held out a hand for the plaque. “Yeah, Rory. Bought him this as a wedding present, guess he must have left it. If you find more of his stuff lying about just leave it in the hall, there’s probably loads of it around since he only left two weeks ago.”

“When he got married,” John reiterated and Jake nodded, turning to look back at the TV. A sudden thought struck him, and he realised why the name sounded familiar. “I don’t suppose he happens to be a nurse who specializes in tropical diseases?”

Jake gave him a strange look. “Yeah, why?” 

A slow grin spread on John’s face. “Ah, small world.” He got up and wandered into the kitchen area at the other end of the room and picked up a banana from the fruit bowl. “I think his wife offered me a job yesterday at the Gallifrey Chronicle? Well, more like forced the job on me if I’m honest. She’s very...” 

“Passionate?” Jake offered carefully. 

“Yes!” John pointed the banana in the other man’s direction with a grin. “That was definitely how I was going to end that sentence. Yep.” He finished by popping the ‘p’ rather loudly. 

“Chuck me an apple, would you?” John was only too willing to oblige. “You going to take the job then?”

The man shrugged. “Not really sure. Suppose I’d have to talk to her about it more in detail, I’m not kidding when I say she literally threw it at me as I was climbing into a cab.” 

“She does that.”

“Often?”

“That’s how I found out Rory had proposed. She likes to drop bombshells at the most inappropriate times, I think it’s how she gets her kicks,” Jake said around a mouthful of apple. 

“Well, you know more about this newspaper than I do. What’s it like?” He began to peel the banana with care.

Jake shrugged. “Pretty standard as papers go. Current affairs, travel advice—that’s Amy’s department. And I know Rose works in local press.” 

John gave him a blank look and bit off the end of his banana. “Er, I have no idea who Rose is, but smashing for her.” 

“Really?” Jake stared at him as if he’d just dribbled on his shirt. “You don’t know Rose? Jack’s Rose?”

“Jack has a Rose?” Yet another reminder of how the times had moved forward in his absence, no doubt. Was there going to be any sort of relief from it? Still, he wasn’t the type to make a big deal out of silly little things, and simply let it all roll off his back with a joke. “Odd. I always pegged him as an Orchid kind of bloke. We tried to grow some, once. Well, when I say grow I mean occasionally water and mostly let wither.” He hesitated, “And if I’m honest, when I say orchid I mean cactus. Still not quite sure how we killed that.” 

Jake simply offered him a bewildered look, clearly surprised at John’s lack of knowledge about her. The scrutiny was beginning to make him feel uncomfortable; he didn’t _like_ not knowing things. He resolved to bring her up at the next available opportunity. It had been a while since John had seen Jack with a girlfriend after all, assuming that’s who she was. More importantly this Rose character had sealed the deal on his stance with Gallifrey in more ways than one; for one, her existence made it abundantly clear that he had a lot more to catch up on in the real world than he’d initially thought. The fact that entire people who were important enough to incite possessive apostrophe’s in Jack’s life existed that he didn’t know about didn’t quite sit right with him. 

_Jack’s_ Rose. It was odd that a spike of completely unwarranted jealousy flared up in him at that moment; he’d clearly been away for too long. And if he was planning on staying to make sure he was more clued up with the workings of London, it made sense to take the job. It made even more sense seeing as he had a chance, however small, of meeting this Rose person. 

****

o-o-o

That evening, Rose stared dully at the computer screen and tapped away at her keyboard with all the gusto of a slow-crawling sloth without a destination, trying to finish typing up her story so it would be ready to run in the issue the day after tomorrow. Not that it was any particular priority, but when Yvonne had pointed out delightedly earlier that she’d never missed a deadline before it did spark something within her, as was no doubt the older woman’s intention. Manipulative bitch. She hadn’t quite forgiven her for ducking out of her interview with Lady Cassandra earlier and had claimed that should her draft not be sitting on her desk tomorrow morning there would be hell to pay. Unfortunately, Rose didn’t doubt it.

Almost everyone else in her department had left by now, none quite as willing to work past the five o’clock landmark as she was, though she couldn’t be sure unless she stuck her head out of her cubicle and had a look around. The Gallifrey Chronicle was structured virtually the same in each department; local press consisted of several booths all lined up neatly within the large newsroom, with Yvonne’s office sealed in soundproof glass at the far end of the room well within sight of most of the employees. Rose knew finance was laid out the same way downstairs and that the special feature area down the hall, the only other department on this floor, was also similar. 

To be frank, she rarely saw much outside the cheap plastic walls of her cubicle, except to get coffee and engage in idle chatter by the water butt sharing stories about how much of a bitch Yvonne Hartman was. So, suffice to say, she was keen to finish up and get home but was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate when she wanted to be doing almost anything except writing that article. 

A few rows of identical booths over, John Smith had entered the newsroom in search of Amelia Williams’ department. He’d been directed by a kindly but tired receptionist to this floor and been warned she might have gone home already, but he was willing to bet she’d still be working and had made his way up. 

“No expense spared,” he murmured, letting out a low whistle as he took in the equipment. It seemed pretty high-tech, especially to someone who’d been away from most electronics for such an elongated period of time. Still, he’d yet to come across a gadget he couldn’t work out, his degree in physics and computer science coming in handy in almost any situation. 

Throwing a furtive glance around he decided to do a little exploring, pulled his thick-rimmed glasses from his pocket on and side-stepped into a cubicle. It seemed pretty standard to him. Computer, desk, a few framed photos of family and friends, no doubt, and an ungodly number of sticky notes plastered to most available surfaces. Details of future stories, sources, to-do lists; John decided the security at the Chronicle could do with some improvement. Imagine if he were some rival competitor who’d just walked in off the street? He’d informed the receptionist he was _John Smith_ , for goodness sake. If it weren’t his own name he’d be suspicious of anyone who went by that dull a title. 

If things worked out after speaking to Amelia he wondered if he’d get a cubicle of his own. “How gloriously mundane,” he sighed, turning to leave before something else caught his eye. Something _brilliant_ , that he just had to kneel down to examine. 

Motion-sensored waste disposal. 

An automatic _bin_. 

“It’s the small things,” he said gleefully, waving a hand over it so the shutter slid open, ever impressed by the lengths humanity would go in the name of convenience. It was placed near the corner of the desk and only reached to halfway up his shin, presumably a comfortable enough height to open with a foot while seated and throw rubbish inside. Suitably amused, John finally stood and removed his glasses, deciding to just get a move on and hunt down Amelia when a loud shout from nearby startled him. 

“God, I _hate_ this!” 

Distinctly feminine, though it still had him jumping out of his skin so much that he stumbled, and as he groped for something to hold onto his foot came crashing down on something large and metal that then clamped shut around it. John’s gaze shot down fearfully. Oh yes, there it was. Only _he_ could shut his foot inside the very object he’d been fascinated with moments before. The bin. 

It seemed he’d done something to the motion sensor after his entire weight had crushed down on the poor object and it was reluctant to release his foot, unyielding as he tugged. “Bollocks,” he growled, trying to shake it off to no effect. Looking around for inspiration he spotted something in the booth across from the one he was standing in, salvation in a small, narrow object lying on the desk; a screwdriver. 

Marching quickly over to it (as best he could with a metal object scraping across the floor on the one foot) he picked it up and fell heavily onto the floor so he could get a closer look. The usual circular opening of the bin was well and truly stuck around his ankle and all attempts to try and wedge it open with the screwdriver proved unsuccessful – he knew he’d have to try and find the controls. 

A few moments more trying to squirm his leg around to an angle that allowed him to access the small panel at the bottom gave him an equal amount of joy (that is to say, none) but he still refused to admit the truth. John Smith, the gadget don, had been defeated by a glorified waste paper basket.

“Bollocks!” he cursed again. 

“You alright there mate?” came an amused voice a little ways from him. Instantly John jumped to his feet and looked around; down the aisle of cubicles a young blonde woman had just stepped out from hers and was eyeing him suspiciously. He’d completely forgotten that he might not be alone in the room. Luckily he was peering out at her from the booth at such an angle that he could keep his right bin-laden foot hidden behind the plastic of the wall, and provided she didn’t come and look around he could probably keep it concealed. 

“Oh, hullo, I—I was, erm, I was just looking for Amelia Williams’ office?” Not entirely a lie. He’d just been a little sidetracked. 

Rose Tyler looked the stranger up and down and gave him an amused tongue-touched smile as she nodded to his right hand. “With a screwdriver?” 

John looked down and realised belatedly he was still carrying it. “Yeah.” He swallowed. “Yeah, I heard... she needed one,” he finished lamely. Rose gave him a disbelieving look. “And being the, erm, outstanding chap that I am I thought I’d... bring her mine.”

“Uh huh,” Rose didn’t look like she believed him for a second. She’d heard some clattering about and plenty of curse words and figured it was old Alistair trying to puzzle out the coffee machine again, so she’d stepped out to help. What she’d found was certainly not what she’d been expecting. The man staring at her now wasn’t one she’d seen before and she was immediately suspicious of the way he was standing awkwardly half inside the cubicle. And what on earth did he need the screwdriver for?

“Well, you’re in the wrong department mate,” she told him, “Amy’s office is in featured articles down the hall.”

The handsome stranger swallowed. “Oh. Right. Well, easy mistake to make. Sorry about that. Always getting lost, me. You know, I once—“ He cut himself off mid-ramble at the dubious look on the younger woman’s face. “Thanks for your help.” 

If he could just get her to return to her booth without her noticing his predicament, then he’d probably have time to release his foot before he went in search of Amelia. Somehow he’d managed to walk right into the wrong department and clearly disturbed one of the journalists. 

Silence hovered awkwardly between them as Rose folded her arms and waited expectantly for him to leave. She knew she wouldn’t get any peace of mind until the strange man was out of her department, but he didn’t seem to be in any kind of hurry. Initial observations noted the pinstriped suit, the white converses and the undeniably great hair; not the usual type she found walking around the newsroom. It came as no surprise that he was looking for Amy’s office considering the quirky types always seemed to be strolling through her department rather than local affairs. 

“You going to go or do you need a chaperone?” Rose asked pointedly. 

“No, no,” he reassured her with a toothy yet uncertain grin, “I’ve got it.” 

Still no movement. 

“Well, then..?” 

“No need for me to bother you any further—you can just go back to work and I’ll be on my merry way. You’ve been far too kind already, thanks.” John was painfully aware of the bin still attached to his foot, and with her watching he couldn’t exactly resume his work on dislodging it without looking like he was up to something untoward. He simply leant against the open wall of the cubicle and gave her a bright smile.

Rose clicked her tongue. Something was off about this bloke, and she didn’t like the idea of leaving him alone in the offices. He clearly wanted her gone, so instead she teased him. “Well now you’ve gone and made me feel responsible for you,” she smirked, “I better wait ‘til I know you got there alright.” 

“Didn’t childhood ever teach you to shirk responsibilities and hurl them into moving traffic?” John parried. “Especially ones like me.”

She folded her arms. “My mum always taught me to finish what I start.” 

“Well, unless you’re constructing a bomb which could potentially cause a near total reality implosion,” John tugged his ear, “or beginning a conversation with a Danish fruit vendor. In both cases you should almost definitely stop what you’re doing immediately.”

He gave her such a sage look that spoke of bare truth that she couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re a strange one, aren’t you?” 

“Yes!” he replied instantly. “Yes, incredibly. Bizarre, that’s me. Have you ever considered how bizarre, ergo appropriate, the word bizarre is?” He tested it out on his tongue a few times. “Bizaarree. And actually, being bizarre, I’m really self conscious about people watching me walk away, so if you wouldn’t mind just,” he paused, “you know. Skeddadling.” It was a valiant effort, but the blonde woman was having none of it and simply rolled her eyes. 

“For God’s sake man, go!” 

There was no logical solution to this; well, maybe she wouldn’t notice? With all the pride he could muster, John emerged fully from the booth (his foot still thrust inside a waste disposal unit) and began to walk in the direction she’d indicated. His right leg stumbled a little with every step due to it resting on uneven footing, and it took only a few seconds for him to hear the snort of amusement from behind him. 

“You’ve, erm,” she was clearly trying to control herself, “you’ve got something on your foot there, mate.”

John turned to see her trying to hide her giggling behind one hand, clearly covering up a wide smile. “Have I?” John returned dryly. “I hadn’t noticed.” Evidently she could no longer restrain herself and burst out laughing at his predicament, though to her credit she regained her composure relatively quickly and tried to assume a calmer air. John decided to put her out of her misery and show, were roles reversed, how he’d probably be equally entertained and offered her a look of resigned defeat. “Surprisingly enough, this is actually not how I usually meet people and is hugely embarrassing, so if you wouldn’t mind helping me out of this monstrosity while I grope around for where I dropped my dignity I’d be much obliged.” 

With a tongue-touched smile she jogged over to him. “I can probably get the bin off you, but I reckon the dignity’s a bit of a lost cause.” 

“I did rather stick my foot in it, I suppose.” 

As she knelt down Rose simply arched an eyebrow at him, but ultimately ignored it. “Don’t worry; these things get stuck all the time. Bloody useless if you ask me. All they need is a good—“ she whacked the side of the contraption with an open palm, and the mechanism released his ankle. John pulled it out with visible relief and nursed the area the jaws of the bin had latched onto. Rose got back to her feet. “There. See?”

“Ta, muchly. I’m cursed with a rather insatiable curiosity, always gets me stuck in things.” He rubbed the back of his neck in bewilderment. “Not usually bins, though. That’s new. Which way did you say Amelia Williams’ office was?” 

“Down the hall, there’s another big newsroom on this floor and she’s at the end,” she supplied.

He gave her his warmest smile. “Thanks again, so much—don’t work too hard.” He began to walk cheerily back to the door of the newsroom when Rose suddenly called after him. 

“Oi, don’t forget your screwdriver.” 

John paused midstride and gave the girl a pointed look. In return she simply nodded gleefully at the desk he’d left it lying on, cocking her head to one side in amusement. Slowly he returned and picked it up, sliding it into his pocket with clear reluctance.

“Close call.” He gave her a wry smile. “What would I have done without you?” 

She simply offered him a challenging smirk in response as he finally headed from the room. She watched him retreat and tried to pretend she wasn’t zeroing just a _little_ on his bum, her eyes darting upwards when he suddenly turned at the door with one hand on the frame. 

He gave her a curious look, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “What did you say your name was?” 

She brushed a strand of blonde hair out of her eyes. “Rose.” 

John tested it quietly to himself, liking the way it rolled off the tongue. It may have just been someone who shared a name with the woman who bore an emotional significance to Jack, but he had a good feeling about her. And he had always learnt to trust his instincts. Not to mention Jack had good taste, and this Rose wasn't half bad to look at. “Well, it’s nice to meet you Rose.” He offered her a final almost secretive smile she didn’t understand and a wink before departing from the room. 

It was only a few minutes after she’d sat back down with her report that she realised she’d forgotten to ask his name in return.


	3. shining like a new dime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a job and Jack asks him to dinner. (Are the two events mutually exclusive?) Meanwhile Rose is finally connecting the dots... Thanks again to all readers! Don't be afraid to let me know what you thought :)

It was a universally acknowledged truth that New York was known as the city that never slept, the one place in the world that kept chugging along the entire way around the clock, but Tallulah felt this was a misconception bolstered by the people who lived there who fancied being a resident of such a city instead of it having roots in _actual_ truth. She’d found that any city rarely retired completely at a certain hour; not if you knew where to look. After three years living in the aforementioned Big Apple and a further four in London she’d barely spotted a difference in her line of work. If anything, she found less people sleeping soundly and more people otherwise inclined to be added to her clientele here in London than she ever had in her home city.

Though, that said, her line of work was hardly sophisticated. She’d never be spending her earnings at Fortnum and Mason or Harvey Nichols, but it was a living, and one she didn’t mind resigning herself to. She liked her little corner of London in her own bubble of ignoring the more refined residents, which was one of the reasons she’d been so abhorred by the journalist who’d come sniffing around her street corner one night. 

“I ain’t doing nothing illegal!” she’d snapped at her, so well-dressed and significantly out of place in her smart boots and tight jacket. “So you can take your pen and your story and shove it somewhere the sun don’t shine.” 

That had been a few nights ago. Things had changed since then, and when the journalist—Rose, she called herself—returned a second time she seemed genuinely concerned and prepared to help, and something inside Tallulah had weakened at the sight of that. It was so difficult to find a friend to turn to, and with what had been going on recently she almost wanted someone to just confess everything to. 

“It’s Tallulah, isn’t it?” Rose said, walking up to where she stood leaning against a bollard. This time she’d wisely dressed down to a hoodie and trainers and left her notebook at home. “We met the other night?” Tallulah sniffed disdainfully and glared evenly back. “I promise your job isn’t the reason m’here. Everyone in London knows this happens and nobody gives a flying fuck. I just want to help you.” 

“Oh yeah?” Tallulah looked dubious. “Well I’m on the clock blondie, so if you’ve got help you better just gimme the cliff notes version.”

The journalist didn’t seem impressed with her attitude, but continued regardless.

“People have been going missing, am I right? People you know.” 

Fear flared up within her and she looked away, not wanting to give the journalist the satisfaction of seeing it in her eyes. Because it was the truth. Terrifyingly so, but there was no denying it. You could only ignore it for so long when there were always less of you walking the streets at night than there were the night before, and it was inching closer to home; Carol Anne only worked a few blocks away. Maybe she’d be next. 

Still, she adopted a defensive posture. “What’s it to you?” 

“Look, I know this might be hard to believe ‘cause a lot of people probably spend their lives looking down on you, but I swear m’not one of them. People can disappear around here and no one will care, least of all law enforcement—but _I_ do. I’ve been paying attention.” Tallulah shifted her weight uncertainly; this Rose person seemed genuine, but not trusting people who looked as such was an art form perfected from years of living on the street. “And I want to do something about it.”

“Yeah?” Tallulah let out a mirthless giggle. “You and what army?”

Rose’s jaw set. “Look,” she began curtly, “I don’t care if you don’t like me, or my clothes or the way I talk; all I care about is the fact that somebody is getting away with something terrible right now and they’ll keep it up so long as nobody bothers to ask any questions. And if you won’t help me to do just that then I’ll have to find someone who will.”

She gave the other woman a firm, expectant stare which she chose not to meet, uncertainty warring in her gut. With a final frustrated sigh Rose shoved her hands in the front pocket of her hoodie and began to walk away, at which point Tallulah finally turned to watch her retreating back. Oh, _hell_. What harm would it do? 

“It—it might be me next,” she got out. 

Rose turned back around. “Please, tell me everything you know.” 

Tallulah shrugged awkwardly. “There’s not much to it, really. They just—one day they’re here, the next they’re not. And in our line of work you think nobody keeps a register but if there’s anything we all do it’s we all stick together. We all got problems, but nobody just ducks out on us.” She tapped her blonde hair unconsciously. “Friends ring the police and all that, but no one thinks much about a prostitute going missing.” Sourly, she shook her head. “They probably send up thank you notes to on high every time it happens.”

The journalist nodded, looking like she was absorbing what Tallulah was saying. It was then that she posed a stranger question. “Do you know anything about something called the Skaro Project?”

Tallulah hesitated. In truth, yes. To this journalist? No.

“Nothing,” she said, “sorry.” 

Rose nodded pensively before digging around in one of her pockets and handing the other woman a card. “Thanks. This has my e-mail and phone number—if you remember anything else, please let me know. Remember I just want to help.” With a final look she started back in the direction she’d arrived in, and Tallulah wondered if she was planning on sleeping some more before she had to wake up for her no doubt _respectable_ job. 

Still, she knew she’d been rude and she was after all still withholding information, and this Rose person had seemed like she meant it. She felt compelled to offer something else before she left for good. 

“Carol Anne,” she called, and Rose turned. “She was the last one to go, yesterday.” She shrugged as she stuffed the journalist’s card in her bra. “I didn’t like her much, but I hope she’s not... you know. Whatever.” 

Rose smiled ruefully. “Me too. Thanks, Tallulah.” The dull thud of her trainers on concrete slowly receded, until finally she disappeared into the dark.

**o-o-o**

John wasn’t due to start work at Gallifrey until Monday morning, and as a result had the whole weekend to move at least most of his stored furniture into his new flat and try and keep himself entertained once that was done. It was only as he sat down in his favourite chair (it had _wheels_ ), now propped in his new room in front of his laptop, that he realised he was already coming down with a poor case of cabin fever. He’d been planning on spending the extra few days sifting through some ideas for what Amelia wanted him to do at the Chronicle next week, but for the first time in a long while the words just wouldn’t come.

He’d already called Jack and invited him out for a leisurely lunch, like old times, but he’d been rebuffed with the information that the Thames Agency had really taken off in John’s absence. Apparently it was now a _reliable business_ with a _wider range of clientele_ which was just a pompous way of saying they felt a bit more important these days and took their work a lot more seriously. John hoped the days of scooping extra seats on the half empty tours for free weren’t completely over. They always provided something entertaining to do on a boring afternoon—such as this one, in fact. 

It was inevitable that a period of adjustment would have to occur after twenty successive months of being constantly on the go; he’d just hoped his superior mind might bypass that stage completely in favour of enjoying the more exciting things that came with being in London again, like being around the people he knew. Instead, he had his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose and was spinning idly in a circle in his chair while trying to come up with something to put to the word document in front of him. 

“What I want from you, John,” Amelia had said authoritatively three nights prior after he’d entered her office and sat himself down with the air of a child being reprimanded. Amelia Williams gave off a rather _demanding_ aura, and he found himself doing just as she asked in a way he wasn’t used to after living by himself for so long. “Is a regular piece. Weekly, if I can get it past the Editor-in-Chief. Something funny, something factual, but more importantly something real—I want a feature on what travelling abroad is really like.” 

John began to amuse himself by hanging a ruler half over the edge of the desk and springing it like a diving board. “What, lonely and unfulfilling?” 

Amelia rolled her eyes. “When I say ‘real’ I don’t mean ‘angsty’, as goes the common misconception these days—and besides, I know for a fact you don’t think like that, so save it for your novel.” John laughed as she leaned back in her chair. “I want slums, I want under-cities, the feeling of living off the clothes on your back. The _real_ places. I don’t want all that sparkle and glitter you get at tourist destinations and five-star hotels. This feature needs to be something much rawer than that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And you think I can do that?”

“Can’t you?” she challenged. 

“Well, yes, obviously,” he said blithely as if that weren’t the real concern, “it just feels like you’re putting an awful lot of faith in a man you barely know.” He sprung the ruler again, this time further than the time before and she spared it a tired glance. 

In answer she seemed to ponder this and stood up, shuffling through some of the papers on her desk. “John, I get writers in my department handing me articles on ‘how to tell your boyfriend is a commitment phobe’, or ‘the best way to count coins on your groceries’, and, God forbid, ‘five other spreadables strawberry jam doesn’t go with and the one it does’.”

“That _is_ terrible,” he answered gravely. 

Amelia groaned. “Isn’t it?”

“Strawberry jam goes with everything.”

The red-head leaned forward and made a half hearted attempt to swat him good-naturedly, which he ducked out of the way of. “See what I mean?” She sat back down with a broad smile. “You make me laugh, and that’s exactly what Gallifrey needs. I want to be laughing and I want to be learning something, and that’s what I think you can do.” The amount of confidence in him she was exuding was incredibly flattering. “I don’t want a travel brochure; I want our readership to know what it’s like travelling with John Smith.”

John took a few moments to contemplate this, tapping the ruler on his other hand as he thought about it. It seemed simple, easy to do (probably) and she paid on commission for every article he produced. It was just the kind of noncommittal job he’d need if he woke up one morning and decided he needed to catch a plane to somewhere exotic. 

“So, essentially,” he reasoned, “you want me to turn bits of my life into a story and punch it full of facts, advice and a healthy (yet not excessive) amount of wry self-deprecation?”

“Exactly.” She gave him a knowing smile. “We’re all stories in the end, John. You just have to make it a good one.” 

John offered a dry, amused look. “Very poetic. You should write that down.”

Amelia simply shrugged in response. “So,” she pushed on, “can you do it?”

He pretended to ponder it seriously as he sprang the ruler again, when—truthfully—there was little thought to be done considering how perfect it all seemed for him. “Amelia, we haven’t known each other long enough for you to realise I am, in fact, _brilliant_. And,” he hastened to continue as she opened her mouth to cut him off, “it would be my pleasure.”

He startled himself and almost lost his balance as the force he’d been applying to the ruler against the edge of the desk caused it to snap. He offered Amelia a sheepish grin. 

“We’ll deduct that off your first pay check.” 

After that it had simply been talk of how he’d get paid, when he was to start, and of course the matter of him producing a sample of his writing for Amelia to give to the Editor-in-Chief—who, apparently, was a sweetheart and should give John no reason to worry. It was this that he was currently trying to write up with little success. He couldn’t help it, he felt restless; despite finding both a flat with a nice bloke and the perfect job for him with a sizable paycheck in barely under a week, he couldn’t quite bring himself to feel as pleased as he should be to be back home. Something was missing, and he had a strong suspicion he knew what it was. 

The open road. 

John hated the idea of conclusions, and the supposed breather he was taking in London was beginning to feel awfully like something finishing out there in the rest of the world. He didn’t do goodbyes, that way nothing really ended. Travelling the world had seemed like the perfect solution to that, seeing as there’d always be something else to discover and no real end to that journey. He thought about those last few weeks in Burma; he’d spent the majority of it alone, which suited him, but at the beginning Grace had been there. She’d been resourceful, fun and, well... interested. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been likewise, and there’d been an exchange of phone numbers though he had no intention of calling her. The last time he’d gotten involved with someone hadn’t exactly worked out in his favour. Quite simply he just wasn’t looking for anything permanent or even temporary, and it was probably better off that way; he wasn’t always as kind as he wanted to be in relationships. Sometimes they felt a little too much like endings too.

Besides, this stay in London wasn’t _really_ a farewell to his travelling life, he reminded himself; it wasn’t about anything more than reacquainting himself with his friends, with Jack, and spending some time with his family that he hadn’t found a chance to visit yet. Nothing had _ended_ , he was just being melodramatic and silly. 

Just as he was letting his mind wander further and further away from the article he was supposed to be typing up for Amelia, his phone began to buzz across the surface of his desk. It was embarrassing how quickly he leapt to the distraction. 

“John Smith.”

“You sound like a car salesman. Find a more interesting way to answer your phone before someone tries to buy your beloved ‘Tardis’ off you.” 

“Donna!” he replied with forced enthusiasm, “How are you?” 

“You’d know if you actually gave me a ring occasionally. Or sent a text. Or stopped by to visit. Same old _bloody_ address you lazy, stick thin, brain dead prick.” 

He rubbed his eyes tiredly. You had to be in a certain state of mind to keep up with Donna McAvoy when she was worked up. “I was going to. I just figured you’d be busy and I couldn’t just turn up unannounced.”

“I had a baby, John; I’m not chained to the wall. Why the hell did you go see _Lover Boy_ before me?” Her irate tone didn’t rattle him as he’d been expecting the phone call for a number of days. He and his cousin had always shared an amiable relationship, filled to the brim with childish bickering and lightly sprinkled with the occasional warm and meaningful moments. She was a couple of years older than him, well into her thirties; with the marriage, three kids (as of a few months ago) and the charming white picket fence, Donna lived a life John deeply respected. It was probably the one adventure he would never have. 

“Actually, I went to the Agency. Best guess of where _you’d_ be, obviously! Seeing Jack was just an added bonus, it was all about you. I’m sure he told you how heartbroken I was when I realised you weren’t there?” 

“Don’t play that game with me, sunshine, or I’ll make you regret it.” 

He sighed. “So, wait, all that training _did_ pay off, and you _can_ finally slap me across the airwaves?” The fear he inserted into his tone was only partially fake. 

The tinny voice on the other end snorted. “Look, just come visit soon, yeah? Sally and Kathy are dying to see you, and you haven’t even met the latest. We named him after you.”

John blinked in astonishment. “Really?”

“Of course not!” The answer was so blunt while she laughed that he grinned despite himself. “He’s called Larry, after Lee’s dad.” Her cousin tried to hide his wince at what, to him, seemed like an unfortunate choice for a name. Donna didn’t notice. “Anyway, that’s not why I’m calling. Jack’s dealing with a customer right now but he wants to know if you’ll come out for dinner tonight.” 

“Is he asking me out on a date?” He grinned. 

“Rich, coming from the poor friendless bloke pining for some company for lunch earlier.” 

John clicked his tongue. “Point taken. Where, then?”

“Usual place; Sat-Five at seven.” 

“Dinner and dancing, he really is asking me out,” he observed with a chuckle. 

Donna chortled with him for a few moments. “Well, he better not have any plans for grand romantic gestures because I’m going to be there—Lee too.” She paused for a moment and John sensed there was more. “There’s also someone he wants you to meet so please be there, alright?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He didn’t let on that he had a feeling he knew who this mysterious dinner guest might be; Rose. “Well, some of the world. If someone offered me France I might not come to dinner.”

Beyond that it was the usual swapping of pleasantries and idle conversation throughout the last few minutes of her break, but John was only half listening to her talk about her newborn son and feeling suitably guilty about it because his mind kept wandering to the blonde he met three nights ago at Gallifrey. She’d said her name was Rose, and he’d already established _Jack’s_ Rose worked at Gallifrey, so the odds of her being the same one were incredibly likely. Did that matter? She’d seemed lovely. More than lovely, although the tips of his ears turned red with mortification when he thought about their first meeting. He’d gotten his foot trapped in a bloody _bin_ ; that Rose person had probably laughed her whole way home. Not exactly the suave and intelligent first impression he was used to making. In his mind, anyway.

Still, why was what she thought of him important? Of course it’d be a bit of a kick to the pride if she thought he was an idiot, especially coming from someone he’d immediately valued the opinion of—John liked to consider himself an excellent judge of character, as proven by some of the finer associates he’d travelled with over the last twenty months, and he’d gotten nothing but good vibes from this Rose. He supposed he’d find out whether her impression of him was completely decimated later that evening, and then he’d decide whether it really mattered.

In the meantime, he forced his attention back to the empty word document in front of him. Time to get cracking.

**o-o-o**

Sat-Five was a charming hole-in-the-wall sort of place a few streets away from the Thames Agency, tucked between two huge office blocks usually available for letting. The ambience was particularly sleek and understated, and drew inspiration from the mid to late forties with simple whites, blues and reds decorating the rounded tables and World War II memorabilia lining the walls. Halfway across the room from the entrance the lines of tables gave way to a varnished linoleum floor, behind which sat a live bland churning out the likes of Glenn Miller and Frank Sinatra. The floor was hardly professionally made and was always too slippery to dance on all that seriously, but still provided hours of pre and post dinner entertainment.

Since moving back to London it had become a favourite spot of Rose’s, largely because of what the place did to Jack. He would don one of his favourite navy military coats and act as suave and debonair as if he’d just walked out of the forties himself, which albeit was not all that different from normal. He was a man out of time, for certain. Then he would politely kiss her hand and ask her for a dance, to which she would demure but ultimately agree, and they’d laugh themselves silly in the fast songs and talk about everything and occasionally nothing during the slow ones. If they’d brought Mickey he might cut in and they’d stumble through a dance, but they would thoroughly enjoy themselves no matter what. 

Tonight, in particular, she had high hopes for the experience. After probing Jack a little (at Mickey’s objection) about the mysterious John Smith, he’d finally agreed to introduce her—it only seemed fair that she should get to meet his supposed best friend after all, even if Mickey’s opinion of him wasn’t too high. The three friends were seated at a slightly larger table than normal to leave room for the other invited parties yet to arrive; Lee and Donna, whom Rose was familiar with through Jack, and John. 

“It’s nearly half seven,” Mickey pointed out, sifting through the menu in a disgruntled manner. “Can’t we just order for them?”

Jack shook his head. “Donna and Lee have three kids to try and tuck into bed, and you know John’s always late for things.” For Rose’s benefit he added, “He hates time constraints. Working to deadlines, being told what has to happen and in what order; he really doesn’t like that. He prefers to work to his own schedule.”

“I’d love to see him spend a week under Yvonne Hartman,” she muttered. 

Her friend was about to add something else before he spotted someone over by the entrance and his face lit up with a grin. “John, over here!” Immediately Rose followed his gaze to try and get a better look, and her eyes nearly bulged out of her sockets as she watched the same man from the office a few nights ago weave in between Union Jack coloured tables towards them. 

He'd donned a simple royal blue suit with a red patterned tie, the oddity of the combination making him stand out among the elegantly dressed crowd just enough, but not too much. The white converses from the other night had been replaced with red, but what drew her attention was the completely unsurprised expression as recognition registered on his face. 

“Rose!” he beamed. 

“Bin man!” she replied, immediately feeling guilty as she watched his grin fade slightly at the reminder. Regardless, his eyes twinkled in amusement. 

“I guess it’s good to be remembered, at least.”

Rose’s tongue crept out to touch the side of her smile before she responded. “I’d never forget a face like yours.” 

Jack, watching the playful jabs shot back and forth, stood up hesitantly. “Uh, do you two know each other?” 

John turned to look at his friend, as if noticing him for the first time and clapped a hand on his shoulder in greeting. “Yeah,” he said, “we, ehm, ran into each other that night I went to Gallifrey to see about the job.”

“Ran into each other?” Rose laughed incredulously. “More like he ran into an automated bin and I had to get him out of it!”

At this, their mutual friend let a sly smirk slip into place. “Tell me more.”

“Oh, brilliant. It only took forty-two seconds for Jack to find that out, thank you _so_ much.” To Jack, assuredly; “I had it under control.”

Rose tapped her chin thoughtfully. “To be fair, he did have a screwdriver. But didn’t you say you were just taking that to Amy?” She was having far too much fun with this. “Although, why you’d need a screwdriver for what was _clearly_ a job interview is beyond me but, you know, not my department.” 

At her teasing his eyes visibly narrowed as he fumbled for an excuse. “Actually, I’ll have you know I was helping her put up some shelves.” 

She smirked. “Oh really?”

“Yes, _really_ ,” John carried on, “screwdrivers are incredibly useful for that sort of thing.”

Neither of them noticed the look of worry that passed over Jack’s face as he watched their exchange; it was bad enough that they’d met outside of his carefully planned _platonic_ setting with him as a mediator, but even worse because he recognised that stare Rose was giving his best friend. _Interest_. Sod it all, he had to cut this off before John had a chance to notice it himself. Clearing his throat he waved a hand to draw their attention.

“Can I cut in?”

John scratched his ear. “’Course. Feel free to jump in and defend me anytime you like.”

Jack ignored him with a wry grin. “Well, I’m not sure if introductions are necessary but John—this is Rose Tyler, I’ve known her since I was a kid, and Rose—John Smith, my best friend.” John finally sat down as the two shook hands, Rose echoing John’s parting comment from the other night. 

“Thanks, Jack,” Mickey chose that moment to comment dryly, shooting John a glare.

Jack rolled his eyes. “My _other_ best friend, Mickey.” 

John blinked, turning to look at Mickey in surprise. “Oh Mickey, you’re here. I didn’t notice you.” Rose watched her friend’s eyebrow twitch. “Good to see you.” He held out a hand for the other man to shake, which he took and returned the sentiment. She observed the exchange with interest; John was curt, certainly, but not entirely impolite enough to warrant the disdain Mickey always reserved for him and she wondered if it really was mutual. Either that or her own jovial first impression of John was impeding her impartiality. 

Before the conversation could dip into ruder territory everyone was back on their feet as Donna and Lee arrived, swapping greetings and a slap on the arm from Donna to John as a chastisement for not getting in contact with her sooner. Shortly after they were all firmly seated and perusing the menu; Mickey and Jack aside, who had already given it some thought while they were waiting. 

As the background warbles of All or Nothing at All floated over to their table, John looked back up at Rose. 

“So, Rose, if you’ve known Jack for most of his life, why is it I’ve never met you before?” 

She clicked her tongue. “If you’re supposedly his best friend, why is it _I’ve_ never met _you_ before? Seeing as I was here first, and all.”

“Rose went to university a couple of months before I met you, and you were gone by the time she got back. It’s basically your fault,” Jack responded as he eyed up one of the waiters dressed in a vintage military uniform. 

“I hear you’re quite the traveller,” Rose commented. 

“Runner more like,” Donna snorted, “he can barely stay in one place for half a day.”

John gave her a pointed look which she returned with an arched brow. He cleared his throat. “I just think I _could_ sit at home and kill all my brain cells watching television like most of the populace,” he remarked, “or I could catch a flight out to Tahiti and watch the second Venus transit to happen in the last decade, and the only one I’ll ever get to witness in my lifetime. Well, unless I live to a hundred and thirty-three. And I reckon, at most, I could only make it to a hundred and thirty.”

“Oh, good lord, a black dot crossing in front of the sun. Definitely worth the cost of a flight halfway round the world.” There was a moment’s pause as they ordered from the waiter before John continued.

“You may deride, dear cousin, but that black dot won’t cross the sun again until 2117. Believe me, when I’m outside staring in awe at the complete transit from Tahiti—while you’ll see nothing because of light pollution and the poor positioning of Europe—I’ll be the one having the last laugh.”

“I think it sounds fun!” Rose grinned. “It’s got to be at least a little exciting to watch something that’ll only ever happen the once, yeah?” 

“There!” John pointed his fork at her. “A woman of taste. Why waste time here in England?”

“Because you’re out of cash,” Mickey smirked. “That’s why you’re back in London now, isn’it?”

The only sign John heard him was a twitch in his jaw. “Any hobby demands a certain amount of expense, of course.”

“But mainly yours.” 

John finally spared him a withering glance. “My mistake. I forgot you liked counting buses in Piccadilly Circus for fun.”

Before Mickey could protest, Lee placed a hand in the middle of the table and tapped hard to draw attention to it. “C-c-claws away, okay?” 

“This is a nice evening out;” Jack continued sternly, “all those not mature enough will be driven home.” 

With the eye of someone taking down notes of all the finer details of a story, Rose knew there was history between John and Mickey. It was thick and palpable in the air between them, sitting heavily at the table like an extra dinner guest and written clearly in their avoidance of the other’s gaze. She was determined to find out what it was; she’d never seen Mickey so snide and quick to insult. By nature he was always relaxed and kind—or at least, he’d always been to her and Jack.

And although Jack hadn’t explicitly said so, Rose liked to think that the evening was based around the idea of her getting to know John, so she might be able to wheedle it out of him at some point. As the food arrived and Donna and Jack and Lee and Mickey split off into separate conversations, it left her to bore John with the worst stories she’d ever exasperatedly reported on, and him to regale her with tales of the most marvellous things he’d seen throughout his travels. It was only when Jack joined in and they started describing a holiday they took in Croatia a few years ago that she began to wonder if he was making any of it up. 

“I don’t believe you, I don’t believe a word you say!” 

“This is the stone cold truth! And we’re just standing there, fifteen of us—“

“Naked,” John put in. 

“ _Naked?_ ” she shook her head as she laughed. 

“Naked!” Jack confirmed gleefully, “and I was like oh no, no, this has nothing to do with me, but then the thing roars and oh my God we are _running!_ ” 

“And then I fell and couldn’t get moving again, but before I completely start to hyperventilate Jack is there helping me up and he says—“

“I knew we should’ve turned left!” they finished together, howling with laughter and banging fists on the table.

“You’re lying through your teeth,” Donna said after a mouthful of wine, but was grinning despite herself. Even as the boys shook their heads she continued. “No, I mean it! You two would tell a story about black being white if you thought it’d get you a laugh.”

“I swear to you Donna, you can’t make stuff like this up.” Jack laughed heartily. 

“But did you ever get your clothes back?” Rose giggled into her glass.

John shook his head. “Jack did. I had to walk five miles starkers as the day I was born.” 

She held his gaze with a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “Not too much of a loss, then.”

Any flirtatious response the wine might have drawn out of John was interrupted by the sound of Jack’s glass hitting the tabletop, soaking his side of the linen in wine. “Damn,” he hissed as he leapt to his feet, trying to dab at it with his napkin. “I’ll just go get a cloth. And, uh, another drink. John,” he looked at his friend sharply, “bar. Now.”

Feeling oddly like a child being sent to the headmaster’s office, John dutifully stood and followed Jack across the room, skirting around a few wide dancing couples. “At least you’re buying me a drink first this time,” he said as they reached the bar. 

Jack waved down the barkeep (adorning a pressed RAF pilot’s uniform) and asked for two glasses of bourbon. John rolled his eyes; his friend always made a point of ordering American drinks whenever the opportunity presented itself. 

“Hey, I bought all the drinks in Croatia,” he pointed out, “and you didn’t even sleep with me once.”

John hummed in amusement as they took the first coarse sip. After a few moments he watched his friend’s face scrunch up apprehensively, his whole demeanour exuding reluctance, and he had a feeling he knew what might be coming next.

“While we’re on that topic,” he began hesitantly. “About Rose. I love that you guys are getting along and your continued jokes about waste disposal are cute, but...” Up to this point he’d kept his eyes averted, tracing a finger over the bar top, but he finally wrenched his gaze back onto his best friend. “I hate to talk to you like this, it doesn’t feel fair to you, but don’t try anything with her, alright?” 

John bought himself time to respond by swallowing another small mouthful of bourbon, letting it burn down his throat. He’d sensed this conversation coming over the last hour and was cautious with his response. “Aren’t I supposed to express an interest in her before you ask me to let alone in a brotherly way?”

Jack was unfazed. “Don’t misunderstand me—I’m not asking you, John, I’m telling you. Stay away from her.”

“Why?” He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you trust me?” 

His friend’s gaze softened very slightly, and his response was surprisingly warm and earnest. “With my life.” After giving him a lingering look he turned away again, hiding behind his glass and a mirthless smile. “With my baby sister? Hm.” John shifted uncomfortably, leaning his back against the bar and angling himself to survey the rest of the room. “Your track record doesn’t exactly inspire much confidence.” 

John didn’t reply. Jack pushed on. 

“She’s not going to be the next River Song. She deserves more than that, and I refuse to watch it happen.”

Silence hung in the air between them for a few moments as John contemplated the honesty of his request. Jack was clearly reluctant to ask (no, _tell_ ), and it was a testament to how much he must care about Rose that he was even bringing it up. That, coupled with John’s awareness of his ‘track record’, as Jack astutely put it, was enough for him to take the plea seriously. In his best friend’s eyes shone that strong, unwavering loyalty he knew would defend his own interests in the same way, and he couldn’t help but admire Jack for his boldness and valiant protection of Rose. Not that he had anything to worry about—John knew he was right, and he thought of dear resourceful Grace. It was all the same, really; he wasn’t looking for any kind of romantic entanglement because he knew he’d ruin it. He didn’t need Jack’s help keeping himself in check.

“Okay.” He was completely sincere in his response, and gave his friend an accepting smile. “That’s fine, I understand.” The relief was visible in Jack’s expression and he patted John on the shoulder in thanks. “And for the record,” John peered over the rim of his glass nonchalantly, “I wasn’t actually interested.” 

“Ha,” Jack snorted, and gave him a sly look. “I don’t believe you.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Well, Rose _was_ very nice to look at. And listen to. And talk to. The look on Jack’s face suggested he knew exactly which direction his thoughts were nose-diving in.

“Tosser.”

“Don’t you know it.”


	4. wendy, run away with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another flash forward into the lives of John and Rose, and a continuation of their night at Sat-Five where we meet some more of John's family. Thanks to any and all readers, I hope you guys enjoy this!

**10th November, one month before the wedding.**

“John?” Rose lifted her head up from the papers she was examining to watch her fiancé across the room. He was reading on the sofa, much as he did every night, but occasionally dropping the book and quickly diving to the coffee table to jot down an idea or a phrase when inspiration struck him. It was a cycle of sorts, and one that she had grown used to over all the time she’d known him—endearing was the word she used for most of his idiosyncrasies when it came to his writing.

“Mmm?” he answered, not looking up from his page.

She hesitated for a few pregnant seconds before continuing. “Do you want to invite your dad to the wedding?”

Barely perceptibly he tensed, and she knew she’d gotten his full attention. The book shut quietly in his lap as he removed his glasses with one hand and rubbed his chin. “Erm, I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it.” She waited, appreciating the sensitivity of the topic. “I mean, I haven’t spoken to him since Portugal so I’m not sure where we...” He trailed off, finally shrugging and looking at her. 

She bit her lip. “You don’t have to, y’know. If you don’t want him there he doesn’t have to be.” She gave him a gentle grin. “We could be fatherless together.”

John returned her smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. At this she got up from her seat at her desk and crossed the room, taking his hands in hers when she reached him. “Let’s cross him off, yeah?”

From his position on the sofa he was looking up at her, and simply nodded. He gave her hands a grateful squeeze. 

“Also, Mum’s been on my case about flower arrangements and stuff, so could we—?”

“I don’t want to talk about wedding stuff,” John grumbled, swinging her hands for emphasis. His pout made him look like such a child that she couldn’t help but giggle. 

“What do you want to talk about, then?” 

“I dunno.” He pulled her down onto the sofa with him. “Anything. Toast. Shoes. Jack’s new beau.”

“It’ll never last,” she leaned her head on his shoulder. “He’s too hung up on Ianto.” 

John agreed, and they slipped into a companionable silence for a few minutes before Rose shifted, rubbing her thumb against the back of one of his hands. “John,” she started again and he stared down at her. “You... you rarely want to talk about wedding stuff.” Immediately he hummed noncommittally and avoided her gaze, but she was determined to continue. “I just want to make sure this is really what you want.”

“Of course it is,” he replied immediately, concern lacing his tone. “If I didn’t want to marry you I wouldn’t have asked.”

The firmness of his tone had her gifting him a brilliant smile, but she shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. Are you sure you want _this?_ ” Flower arrangements, guest lists, the reasonably sized statement to the rest of the world of their intent; none of it seemed congruous with the man she knew, and it was something that had been puzzling her for a while. “I mean, I know we’re not huge fans of City Hall but we could always just pop by and sign a few contracts, invite some mates and be in and out in ten minutes. I wouldn't care”

John Smith, Rose had decided, was a little like the tide. He was powerful and indomitable, but most of all he was unpredictable. Often she had no idea whether something she might say would either send him rushing towards her or receding out into the ocean as fast as he could, and navigating around his erratic behaviour had been the staple of them stumbling their way through the beginning of their relationship. Sometimes when she felt like she finally had him sussed he would surprise her, and that was both exciting and frightening, and one of the most entrancing things about him. 

“I want this,” he confirmed with a sincerity in his eyes that did just that, “because _you_ want this.”

Rose shook her head in confusion. “John, no—“

He held up a hand to silence her. “Rose, I know you. And occasionally your mother and I do have rational conversations.” She would have thought to smile, but she was a little bewildered. “You may not admit it to anyone, but you want this. You want the church, and the flowers, and the white dress and everything that reminds you of your dad, and I want to give you that. A quickie in City Hall is not how you envisage this particular day in your life and you know it. And besides,” he brushed a strand of blonde hair from her face tenderly, “when I think about _you_ in the white dress I start to want those things a little for myself too.”

Rose closed her eyes to his touch, but guilt was warring inside her. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Are you kidding?” He actually laughed at this, falling away from her onto his back to lie on the sofa. “We both know I’ve somehow managed to turn making you uncomfortable into part of my weekly itinerary.” Sobering up, he cleared his throat. “You’ve spent every day since we met adapting to my schedule, to my needs and whims; I think it’s high time I stopped being a selfish idiot and did something meaningful for you. So what if white weddings aren’t exactly my style?” Here he looked back at her with that familiar twinkle in his eye. “We’ll just have to renew our vows in Tahiti or something.”

She couldn’t help the overwhelming surge of love she felt for this man, laying himself bare and trying to make this sacrifice to her against his very nature. “Only if we live to a hundred and thirty three,” she said, the memory teasing smiles onto both of their faces. Without a moment’s pause John opened his arms invitingly and Rose snuggled up beside him. 

“You might get bored of me by a hundred and thirty three.” 

“Don’t get boring then.”

****

**o-o-o**

**Eleven Months Earlier**

The lights were just beginning to dim throughout Sat-Five, the bright lamps on either side of the room giving way to the flicker of candlelight, and as per the routine Donna leant forward and lit the candle at their own table. When she felt somebody squeeze her hand she gave her husband a soft smile, who grinned back. So much of their exchanges were based in the non-verbal because of his speech impediment, which most people found strange given her penchant for shooting her mouth off; they just seemed to complement each other that way. She couldn’t really picture her life without Lee McAvoy. They’d known each other for nearly twelve years now, ever since her early twenties, and without him she knew, corny as it was, that there’d be something missing from her. 

The atmosphere at Sat-Five once the candles were lit was always a little more sultry, as it was usually the point in the evening where couples took to the dance floor after their meal; it was when Jack would be his most dashing and Mickey would try and match him to the best of his endearing, stumbling ability. Which was why, really, Donna had been puzzled when he’d revealed that his plan of introducing John and Rose platonically involved Sat-Five. Apparently it had something to do with it being one of Rose’s favourite places to go with mates, ergo she wouldn’t associate John with being anything other than a mate, and of course they were also meeting in a group. Donna suspected it was more to do with the fact that Jack loved the romance of the place, and couldn’t resist an excuse to ogle a man in a tight suit. 

When the light flirting had started across the table she’d had to hide her eye-roll in her conversation with her husband, mainly at Jack’s obviously negative reaction to it when he had all but dragged John away from the table. Not to mention the deep red stain on the white cotton cloth which Mickey was currently dabbing at in an attempt to lessen the damage was also prime evidence of his unease. It was his own fault for bringing them _here_. The ambience was infectious. 

“It’s a lost cause, Micks,” she sighed, “just wait for Jack to come back with a wet cloth or a new one altogether.” 

The man shrugged and sat back down in his seat. Donna looked at Rose out of the corner of her eye; she was innocently peering over the edge of her glass in the direction the men had taken off in. Jack was important to her, but so was John. Perhaps more so, even if he was a wretch sometimes. Something had to be done by way of an intervention before his charisma seduced another poor soul-searching girl. 

“Actually, would you get us a top up of wine Mickey? The bottle’s getting a little low, especially once the gentlemen have finished their butch manly whatever they’re having at the bar.” With a nod and a lingering look at Rose that she didn’t notice he stood and left.

“So,” she started, and Rose finally turned to look at her with a smile. “What do you think of John?” 

“He’s hilarious,” she said, “but a bit crazy, and a little arrogant. Incredibly enigmatic. I can see why Jack likes him.”

“Like two peas in a pod, aren’t they? You can imagine how mortified I was when my cousin started buddying up to my boss.”

“I bet,” she mused, before frowning a little. “What I don’t get is why Mickey resents him so much. I mean, I was coming fully prepared to hate him—not knowing he was the same bloke from the other day, obviously.”

Donna waved a flippant hand. “Oh, I don’t know. Something happened a long time ago that we’ve all forgotten about, but they clearly haven’t. The pair of them are like little girls.” 

Rose nodded slowly, turning to stare at her glass. “Jack wouldn’t be... I mean,” she paused, adopting an air of nonchalance. “How long is John staying in London?” 

Lee looked up from what he’d been doodling on the napkin in alarm, giving Donna a significant look the other girl didn’t notice. “Listen, Rose,” Donna began, “about John, there’s something you should—“ 

“I come bearing dishcloths!” Jack proudly proclaimed from behind them, holding up his prize. “And John has the bourbon.” Donna cursed inwardly; was Jack determined to sabotage his own cause at every available opportunity? 

“Scotch, Lee?” John asked as he slid back into his seat. 

“No th-th-thank you,” he replied. Jack began his work on the stained tablecloth as Rose leaned back in her chair and blew some wisps of hair away from her forehead. 

“I could do with a dance,” she beamed. 

Jack spared her a quick glance. “Give me a second m’lady, just going to dab this a _little_ more.” 

Rose looked over at what he was doing. “I mean, if you’re busy Jack I could take someone else. John?” The corner of her mouth perked upwards. John, with the conversation he just had with Jack running through his mind to the effect of _hands off_ , looked to his cousin for help. 

Donna responded immediately. “I’m sure Mickey would love a whirl on the floor when he gets back.” 

“Mickey can dance with him when I’m finished, okay?” She stood and rested a hand on John’s shoulder. “Call it initiation if you like. If I have fun I won’t mention bins ever again.”

A severely tempting offer, but he caught Jack’s eye before he made any kind of move at all. With an almost imperceptible nod of his head he allowed it, but the warning gleam in his friend’s eye reminded him very strongly of the importance of dancing an appropriate distance from her. Jack had seen Rose in this kind of state before; she was naturally cheeky, but usually to benefit the situation in an intelligent way unless, as on this occasion, she had downed a little too much wine over dinner. She hardly acted like a minx habitually. Besides, Jack had faith in John’s good judgement. His almost-sister was a wonderful woman and occasionally a flirt, but he had every confidence in his best friend’s ability to politely decline her advances until at least she was of more sober mind. 

And he’d be cutting in in exactly three minutes time. 

He watched as John allowed himself to be led away from the table, grateful that a relatively fast song was playing at that moment. Mickey returned a few seconds later with the next bottle of wine, but his wide grin quickly faded to puzzlement as he spied the empty seats. 

“Where’s Rose?”

“D-dancing with John,” said Lee. 

Mickey didn’t like the sound of that. 

Rose’s cheeks were delightfully flushed and her eyes sparkled so honestly of laughter that John couldn’t help but giggle along with her as they bumbled their way through a poor imitation of a Charleston. Jack’s words were ringing loud and clear in his ears, but he didn’t see them to be any reason why he couldn’t be friends with Rose Tyler. If anything, he felt Jack had made an almost pre-emptive decision about his interests—it wasn’t like he marched into rooms and scanned every woman for potential dating material. Of course Rose was _nice_ , seemed genuinely interested in his lifestyle and was certainly a more worthwhile friend to Jack Harkness than Mickey Smith, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was planning on jumping her, as Jack would have him believe. He was just enjoying spending time with her.

John considered himself a passable dancer; when he was younger his mother had tried to instil some basic skills in him while his childlike mind could still absorb the steps like a sponge. Often she’d pair him up with his elder brother and make him learn the part of the girl to his burning embarrassment and her inexhaustible amusement. Not to mention Jack’s too when John made the grave mistake in admitting he knew how to let another man lead—that had created many a stare in some of the evenings they’d spent at Sat-Five together with friends. All those hours of torture he hoped amounted to him at least being able to dance respectively in any given situation. This certainly qualified, but luckily Rose seemed to have about as much experience as him. 

“How am I doing?” He put to her amusedly. “Having enough fun to never mention waste disposal again?” 

She made a show of sizing him up as she twirled away from him for a moment. “Mm, average. Jack does more dips.”

“You want me to dip you in the middle of a Charleston?” 

“You call _this_ a Charleston?” 

John protested indignantly. “Yes!” She simply grinned in response and stepped away from him, and he wondered not for the first time that evening how Jack could have possibly kept her so well hidden from him over all the years he’d known him. She was positively bursting with personality. In a brief gap in the music Rose nodded to the floor imploringly, as if inviting him to dip her. 

“No,” he laughed, “I refuse. Not unless you fancy being dropped rather unceremoniously to the floor.” He didn’t have that much confidence in himself. “I’m all for breaching the barriers of social etiquette and making a statement through dance, but not when the only inevitable outcome is the serious injury of a new friend.” 

She raised an eyebrow, eyes dancing. “So we’re friends now?”

“You helped me out of a bin,” he remarked, “that’s as good as me sharing my deepest childhood trauma with you. No, wait,” he sighed, “that would be dancing. The point still stands.” 

Experimenting in the same way many couples around them were, Rose broke away to twist her feet a bit and John did the same. He felt ridiculous, but that was a feeling he’d long since given up acting on. 

“And I guess we’ve already started making plans for future outings.” 

“We—“ John lurched forward as she grabbed his tie and pulled, “we have?” 

“Venus transit, 2117? You can’t bail on me now, I’ve already bought tickets.” 

“Oh. Right.” He cleared his throat. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The song was just beginning to taper off and Rose decided to monopolize his time just a little bit more by asking him to accompany her to the bar—a pitiful excuse as she knew Mickey had just brought back a full bottle of wine to their table, something he was probably aware of, but he humoured her all the same. It was just as she was turning to ask him about what may or may not have happened between him and Mickey that she caught the eye of someone across the room staring at her. Or them, rather, and her eyes narrowed in curiosity. She shot John a furtive look. 

“John, I don’t want to alarm you, but I think the Mayor of London is over there and I think he might be watching us.” 

Her companion gave her a surprised look. “The Mayor?” Rose nodded over his shoulder and he turned to look. Realisation dawned. “Oh. That Mayor. He’s the Mayor?” 

“The ridiculous gold chain sort of gives it away, don’cha think?” John hummed in agreement and Rose worried her lip as she continued to watch the figure. “D'you think he recognises me?” 

John arched an eyebrow, and Rose missed the spark of amusement in his frown. “Why would he recognise you?” 

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with him for weeks about a story I’m working on, but he keeps passing me up—his secretary and I are practically on a first name basis.” 

“He can't fault you for being persistent, I suppose.”

Her expression widened to one of panic as she seemed to willfully mishear his words. “What if he wants to tell me off? I have been really annoying about it. Or maybe he wants to actually give me that interview? Oh my god,” her hand latched painfully onto his arm, “he’s coming over. John he’s getting up and coming over, what do I do?” 

“Maybe release the talons for one,” John groused, prying her hand away a finger at a time. 

Rose was not impressed with his blasé attitude. “John, what do I _do?_ ” she hissed. 

“John!” boomed a voice she recognised and she could barely turn her head to the source in amazement, “My word, I thought it was you. I heard you were back in the city but I almost didn’t believe it! And who’s your lovely friend?” 

Rose had seen the Mayor of London what must have been a hundred times since he’d been elected, but in person he was far more intimidating than his interviews and press releases suggested. Her television took at least five or six inches off his height, but it wasn’t just his size that augmented the presence he commanded in a room. He had the face of a politician, features schooled into a mask of indifference, and deep brown eyes that watched anything and everything with the intensity of a hunting predator. She couldn’t help instinctively standing straighter and more defensively in response to him turning his piercing gaze on her. 

John’s reaction to him was quite different, and allowed her to relax a little. He immediately broke out into an affectionate grin and hugged the man like one would a long lost friend. If John was so pleased to see him surely couldn’t be as formidable as his immediate appearance had told her. The Mayor returned the hug with as much fervour. 

“It’s so good to see you, Harry,” John beamed as he pulled back, and then remembered his manners and gestured to Rose. “This is Rose Tyler, she’s a close friend of Jack’s—you remember Jack, don’t you?” 

“Of course, of course,” Harry waved a hand and peered in to look closely at her. Instinctively, Rose pulled back. “Do you know, there’s a journalist by the name of Tyler who keeps hounding my secretary. I don’t suppose...?” His eyes seemed to look right through her so much that she suspected he already knew the answer.

“Oh, erm, yeah. That’s me.” She blinked. “Sorry. And all that.”

Sensing her discomfort, John pulled between them again. “Rose, I know you’ve probably heard of him already but this is Harry Smith—he’s my brother.” 

Rose’s eyes bulged. _Brother?_

“Unfortunately,” Harry laughed, but in her opinion it didn’t reach the upper part of his face. His eyes were just as cold and hard as they were moments ago. 

John snorted. “Don’t act like you’re the one who drew the short straw here.” 

“Well, I was an only child until you swanned in.” 

“Hm,” John perused Harry’s appearance, looking him up and down as if sizing him up in the mocking way only a comfortable relationship could prescribe. He was taller by a fair few centimetres, but his lanky frame was somewhat overpowered by the shorter man in front of him. “Mayor then, eh? Good grief, I hope they don’t listen to too many of your suggestions.” 

“Oh, it was just another election. Everyone knows the higher up you go the more fraudulent they are.” He laughed again and looked to Rose for a reaction. It was clearly supposed to be a joke, the kind politicians made at their own expense but it didn’t quite come off as such—it was jarred and forced and she only offered what she hoped looked like an amused smile in response. “How was...” He paused for thought, “Africa?”

“Everywhere.” John tugged his ear and sniffed. “And good. Pretty good. Well, very good, actually.” That had to be the least generous adjective she’d heard him describe it with all evening. “Very, erm... yes, good.” 

“I’m sure.” There was that same easy smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Anyway, I wish I could stay and catch up properly, but you know. Once more unto the breach—this city doesn’t run itself. Do stop by soon, John, Lucy would love to serve you tea or whatever it is she does.” 

“I will,” his brother said. “But wouldn’t you like to come say hello to Jack? I know he’d be pleased to see you.”

“I actually visited him last week; I took a few delegates on one of those Time Agency tours of his. They were always good, but they’ve become so much more professional in recent years. The Thames Agency is something City Hall is very proud of.”

John’s smile was more of a beam of pride on behalf of his friend, something Rose would echo if it weren’t for the fact that Mayor Harold Smith made her feel very uneasy.

“Must dash. Oh, and John?” He stopped mid-turn as he began to walk away. “You are going to visit mother, aren’t you? She misses you terribly.”

“Of course,” he reassured him. 

Harry surveyed him with a nod and a final smile. “Good.” 

As the man walked away Rose rounded on John suspiciously. “The Mayor. Your brother is the Mayor?”

“So it would seem,” he mused. At Rose’s dry look he defended himself. “You forget this is new information for me too! He was just my brother a few minutes ago and now he’s... you know, important.” 

“I voted for him.”

“That wasn’t very smart.” 

Rose grinned despite herself. “He seemed... I dunno, trustworthy. Like he might actually make a difference.”

“Well, as long as he implements those public transport policies we came up with when I was six.” Rose raised an eyebrow. “All cars to be replaced with Segways,” he elaborated. “Fast, fun, and remarkably eco-friendly. It’d clear up congestion in the entire of Central London in a jiffy.” Sobering up a little, he straightened his jacket and continued. “He’s a good guy though, Harry. If he ran for Mayor it’ll be because London is something he really cares about.” There was a fond sort of smile playing on the corner of his mouth which had the effect of erasing almost all of Rose’s reservations about the man. 

She thought about Tallulah, the woman she’d spoken to last night, and her bold declaration that she’d do everything she could to help—wasn’t that why she was trying to get in touch with the Mayor in the first place? Surely it made her job infinitely easier now she’d been introduced to the man personally. 

Making her decision she patted John on the chest. “I’ll be right back.” Ignoring his confused look she darted away from him, and jogged in the direction Harold Smith was walking in; away from the loud chatter and the dancing and in the direction of the bathrooms. She called out to him when she was a few metres behind. “Mr. Smith!” 

At the sound of his name he turned, eyes lighting in recognition as he spotted her. “Mr. Smith, sorry to bother you, I was just wondering if I could have a quick word.”

He waved a chiding finger at her which felt distinctly patronising. “I’m afraid not. I make a point of not talking to journalists outside of scheduled appointments.”

_If he’d only ruddy give her one_ , she thought. “Off the record, then. I won’t quote you on anything you say. It’s not about a story, more just—something I care about.” Information was what she wanted; an ally perhaps. Someone she could turn to for help who held reasonable authority throughout the city, and could maybe aid her in getting to the bottom of the mystery no one else seemed to be trying to solve.

Harry fixed her with that same penetrating stare, before inclining his head in a gesture for her to continue. Now she was finally getting the opportunity to talk to him she’d been pursuing for so long, she found her heart thumping madly in her chest. 

“I—“ The words didn’t want to come. “That is, I just wanted to know what you knew about something called the Skaro Project.” 

Harry’s expression was like a blank canvas, giving off the impression of complete disinterest with a practiced ease. Rose couldn’t tell if it was genuine or a mask of indifference. He shrugged. “Nothing, I’m sorry to say. What is it?”

As a journalist it was almost instinct to distrust politicians, but for some reason she felt implored to believe Harold Smith. She couldn’t tell if it was because he truly seemed genuine or because John’s fond expression kept flickering to the forefront of her mind—maybe she was just dreaming up conspiracies where there were none, and the Mayor simply knew nothing about it. It was hardly high profile, after all. 

Still, she knew to keep all her information closely guarded, and schooled her expression into one of naivety. 

“I’m not really sure. I just heard it was a new medical program operating in London and wondered if you knew anything about it. Credibility, and all that.” 

“Well, maybe if you told me where you heard it I might still be able to help.” His tone seemed to drop a few degrees and he took a step towards her. Rose resisted the urge to move backwards and stood her ground. 

“Word of mouth,” she feigned nonchalance. “I forget who it was now.” 

Harry held her gaze for a number of seconds before breaking out into that smile that sent shivers up her spine. “All rubbish, I’m sure. If I haven’t heard of it I doubt it even exists.”

Rose swallowed. “Quite right.” After another pregnant pause in which Harry was staring at her in a way that had her skin crawling she continued, gesturing towards the direction she’d left John. “I’ll, erm, I’ll just be going then. Thanks for talking to me.” 

“Not a problem. Oh, and Rose?” he said as she turned to leave. “If you and my brother are becoming, shall we say, well-acquainted, I suppose you and I will be seeing a lot more of each other.” The notion didn’t exactly bring a lot of joy into her gut.

She nodded. “I guess so.” 

For the first time that evening, a genuine smile seemed to pull at the corner of his mouth, but instead of relaxing her as she’d been sure it would, it felt like ice was pressing into the skin on her back and she resisted the urge to shudder. 

“I look forward to it.” 

Rose simply nodded and walked away as fast as she conceivably could without running. 

When she was gone Harry’s smile dropped, and a grimace slid into place as he pulled out his mobile and hit speed-dial. “ _Somebody_ is talking, and If you don’t find out whom in the next twenty-four hours I’m going to get very, very unhappy. And you don’t want to see me when I’m unhappy.” A pause, as he listened to the tinny voice on the other end. “Her name is Rose Tyler, and she’s buddying up to my brother. Makes surveillance easy, no?” He chuckled mirthlessly to himself. “I love it when nuisances make things convenient.”

He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket, casting one last glance through the dancing couples to where Rose Tyler was now stood with his younger brother and Jack Harkness, talking amicably. 

“Very convenient.” 

****

**o-o-o**

Hours later, after John had left his friends and the elegance and jaunty laughter of Sat-Five behind him, he didn’t return to the quiet niceness of Jake’s flat straight away. Instead he hailed a cab that took him miles out of the city, until the streetlights started to recede and the thick fog exclusively found in suburban neighbourhoods began to creep over the roads like a prowling animal. It cloaked the entire street in a thick cloud, and after paying the cabbie the only reason he knew which way to go was the solitary lamp protruding from the belly of a stone owl shining from the end of a driveway. It was a familiar path, so even through the dark and the blanket of mist he could make his way up to the house with relative ease.

He paused only as he passed the car, the old blue vehicle he’d affectionately christened the ‘Tardis’, and his primary method of transportation prior to him leaving London. He ran a hand along the bonnet, frowning only slightly as his fingertips encountered rust and peeling paintwork; it needed a lot of work, clearly. She was a classic Aston Martin, a youthful and frivolous purchase and the only one he had to his name, inspired by his indomitable boyhood hero, James Bond. He’d had to leave the Tardis behind when he’d chosen to travel, but he’d made sure to put her to sleep in the safest place he knew. 

The house and front garden were well kempt, with a sort of clinical precision that implied professional work and not amateur yet affectionate gardening; the grass was kept to a certain length, the windows frequently washed. There was nothing warm about the simple, small two-storey house, and it wouldn’t look out of place on a washed up suburban street like Hill View Road; it was incredibly unspectacular. And yet it was with trepidation that John slid the key into the lock and opened the front door. 

It was pitch black inside, and for a moment he groped around for a light switch. It flickered into existence as he shrugged off his coat and hung it on a hook. The entire house was as silent as the grave, not a single creature to be heard stirring within. Then after a moment, the click of paws on linoleum could be heard and John broke out into a grin as a familiar old chocolate Labrador trotted towards him. 

“Hullo K-9,” he murmured warmly, crouching down to scratch the dog lightly behind the ears. “Where’s Mummy, hm?” 

After a few seconds of that John stood again, beginning to search through rooms in pursuit of the woman he’d come to see—he found her in the sitting room, staring sightlessly ahead and blissfully unaware that it was completely dark around her. John flicked the switch by the door and light instantly flooded the room, illuminating the old wizened face of the woman he knew so well. 

Once upon a time she was his entire life; her praise meant sunlight, her disapproval complete failure, and her companionship his only desire. However, such was the consequence of growing up, she was now left to her own devices as John burned at the centre of his own world without her. Sarah Jane Smith was the woman who had raised him, the woman who had birthed him and loved him in the face of every adversity he threw at her. He swallowed only slightly as he watched her, the dark glasses she was wearing a sharp reminder of the sight she used to have, which was robbed from her because of him.

“John?” she said, still not moving her head from where she was looking. 

John allowed a soft smile to grace his lips. “How did you know it was me?” K-9 padded in past him and immediately sat sentinel beside his owner. Sarah Jane instinctively reached out a hand to pat the top of his head, needing the reassurance of contact the dog brought. He was the third guide dog Sarah Jane had gotten to know, referred to affectionately as K-9 Mark III by Harry and John, and was the one friend her sons were glad she had the comfort of. 

“Your footsteps. They’re always...” She trailed off, fingers stroking a soothing pattern into her companion’s head. “They’re much lighter than Harry’s.” John was about to express an intense admiration for the strength of her other senses, when a mischievous smirk slid into place on her mouth that came only through knowing things others didn’t. “And Harry told me you might stop by.”

_Cheater_ , John thought. He walked over slowly, leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. Sarah Jane smiled affectionately in response. 

“I’ve missed you,” she murmured. Absently her hand reached out towards him, and John grasped it in one of his own. “It’s so nice to have company; Harry is always so busy these days. Finally come to regale me with tales of all your adventures?”

John scoffed lightly; he didn’t know why, but he was always far more reserved around Sarah Jane. He didn’t want to think it was because of her blindness, more like a hushed sort of respect came over him when he was around her. “Oh, I’d never tell tales half as well as you did yours.” 

Sarah Jane chuckled softly, and patted the sofa beside her for him to sit down; he obeyed, still clasping her hand tightly in his. “My stories are old now, my dear.” 

“They’re still wonderful,” he said fondly. 

His mother smiled, and there was silence for a minute between them, just the occasional rustling of K-9 changing position in front of them. 

“I wasn’t lying, you know,” Sarah Jane murmured. “About your footsteps. They’re so soft and cautious, like you revere every spot of ground you walk on.”

John wasn’t sure what to make of this information, but the way she said it made him feel warm and cared for, as was always her effect on him. “Really?”

“I’m so proud of you.” 

In response John gave into his childlike instincts, glad to be able to forget about work and living arrangements and Harry and Jack and Rose, and just curled into her side. Her left arm went around his shoulders as he rested his head in the crook of her neck contentedly. 

“Now come on,” she continued in a brighter voice, “a promise is a promise. I want to hear about everywhere you’ve been for the last two years—and don’t you dare leave anything out.”

John smiled, and started at the beginning.


	5. I get up in the morning to the beat of the drum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter sees a lot of talk, but it's important for plotty stuff. We also get a flashback of Jack and Rose. Thanks to all you lovely readers and enjoy!

Running a newspaper was a little like running on a treadmill. It was an unending strain on your stamina, force of will and kept you cyclically exhausted—the only key difference was that there was no way to press pause on a printing press. It required your complete focus and dedication to the task at hand, and to be honest the Editor-in-Chief of the Gallifrey Chronicle rarely thought about anything else for any extended period. Then, like in a gym, there were also the other runners to consider silently judging you for the way you completed your workout. Most Editors-in-Chief would be bothered by this unspoken criticism from rival papers and how it might reflect on their standing in the inner circles of media magnates, but Ianto Jones was something else.

Ianto Jones ran the paper his own way and didn’t much care for the opinions of others. This proved to be both an advantage and a disadvantage for the business as immunity from his harshest critics allowed him the freedom to explore new ideas and styles in any way he chose, but also, from some points of view, it also blinded him to valid criticism and methods of improvement in needing areas. As it stood, Ianto oversaw the publication of the weekly Chronicle his way with satisfaction, knowing his employees were competent and he could trust them not to let him down with their editorial choices. 

Mostly, anyway. 

“Where is this guy, Amy? I’m on a tight schedule. I have a meeting with an investor in half an hour.” 

When Amelia Williams, the Editor for the Featured Articles department had approached him about the possibility of a weekly column-like section to do with travel, he’d been dubious. It was hardly the original or innovative thinking that Gallifrey was known for in the business; in fact he’d thought it bordered on the cliché. Every paper had a travel column, which was why Ianto preferred to use featured articles on different places sporadically. But after Amy had sent along a few examples of this man’s writing he had to admit he was interested. Interested enough to meet him and see if he was worth making a regular piece out of. However this John Smith’s punctuality, or lack thereof, wasn’t exactly doing him any favours.

Amy, after a brief glance at her watch, was quick to reassure him, although she couldn’t quite keep the impatience from her tone either. “I promise you, he’s coming.”

“So is Christmas.” 

Ianto was a patient man and liked to think of himself as being in good humour most of the time, but if the man didn’t show in another five minutes he’d slash the idea altogether—he was already ten minutes late, and that simply wasn’t a standard he would accept from someone working regularly at Gallifrey. 

“John’s great, he’s just a little... you know. I’m not sure appointments are really his thing. He’s quite—” She huffed, brushing some red hair from her forehead. “Unorthodox?”

He made a noncommittal hum in the back of his throat. “My massage therapist is what I’d call unorthodox,” Ianto said dryly, briefly scanning through the file he was holding that he’d need for the meeting later, “my employees are _on time_.”

“He’ll be here,” she repeated for what must have been the fifth time in as many minutes. “Or I’ll kill him myself.”

As if on cue a loud crash could be heard from the entrance to the newsroom and their heads shot up instantly to the source. The breakfast trolley, which usually circulated all the offices between nine and ten for those who’d left home with nary a slice of toast, had been knocked to the floor by a careless entrant to the room which was the source of the commotion. 

“Sorry. Sorry. Dreadfully sorry.” The man behind it was hurriedly helping the disgruntled server pick up some of the breakfast rolls (saved by their plastic packaging) and stacked them back on the tray. “Wasn’t looking where I was going, I’m afraid—although in my defence, these things do happen when you have such distracting abstract art on the walls. Really captures your attention. So, in fact, it could well be the fault of whoever’s behind that rather malproductive design choice.”

The server gave him a dirty look. 

“Or, you know, it could just be my fault. Sorry. Again.”

Ianto, mid-page turn in his folder, gave Amy a side-along look. “John Smith?” 

Amy winced. “Erm, yeah.” 

Her boss sighed. “I so wanted to be wrong.” Closing the folder and dropping it on one of the desks, he straightened his tie and marched over to where John was now clearing his throat and trying to ascertain just how many people in the newsroom had witnessed the incident. “Good morning, Mr. Smith. I’m Ianto Jones, the Editor-in-Chief here at the Gallifrey Chronicle.” 

John’s eyes widened in alarm and his gaze flickered between the departing trolley and the man stood before him. “You didn’t—?”

“The entire thing.”

There was a brief moment of silence as John’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and then he continued. “Yes, well, it was lovely meeting you.” He pointed back to the door. “I’ll just be going then.” 

“After you were fifteen minutes late getting here? I _don’t_ think so!” Amy growled before he could make a move, and she jerked her thumb in the direction of her office. 

Ianto smiled good-naturedly. “If you’d like to step into Amy’s office then maybe we can start talking business.” John, clearly astounded by his good luck, beamed. Ianto held out a hand for the other man to shake and he pumped it enthusiastically.

“Thank you, very kind. Very very kind.” The three of them stepped into the office at the back of the room. 

Barely a few seconds later Rose Tyler entered the Featured Articles newsroom with a bundle of papers in her arms. Acting from muscle memory, she headed to one of the cubicles in the far corner where she could see her good friend and roommate typing quickly into her computer. 

“Hey Lynda,” Rose greeted, before nodding at the papers in her hand. “These are from Yvonne. I’m supposed to take them to Mr. Jones—apparently he’s in here?” 

Lynda gave her a toothy smile, and the whole room seemed just that little bit brighter. She always had that effect on surrounding people and environments, to the point where Rose often wondered what she was doing in a ruthless profession such as journalism. Lynda Moss was kind and sweet, generous enough to offer Rose a place to stay when she was new to the city and not particularly fond of staying with her mum on the Powell estate, and warm enough to befriend her when Mickey and Jack were the only people she had in the world. They’d forged a firm friendship, for which she was immensely glad. 

“He’s just gone into Amy’s office with the new bloke. Should be out any minute.” 

“You mean John?”

“That could’ve been his name. To be honest he’ll always be known as Brioche Boy to me now.”

Thinking about her own first meeting with John, Rose snickered. “Dare I ask?”

“I really hope they hire him,” Lynda continued wistfully, her stare trailing in the direction they’d left. “He’s not half bad to look at.” 

A short while later, after the friends had shifted to more casual chatter, the three occupants of Amy’s office stepped out all boasting smiles of varying degrees of happiness. Ianto’s was subtle, just a small quirk of the corner of his mouth as opposed to John’s ear-to-ear grin, but the emotion there was unmistakable. Amy’s was a smug sort of smirk like the outcome of the meeting was something she’d known or suspected all along.

“I like you, Mr. Smith,” Ianto declared, clapping the other man on the shoulder. “It’ll be good to have you on board.” 

John thanked him and allowed his eyes started to wander around the newsroom that was to be his new place of work. It only took a few seconds for his gaze to slide onto Rose, who gave him a small wave. He waggled his fingers in response and mimed a _hello_. Collecting herself and remembering the job she had to do, Rose hurried to pick up the stack of papers she’d set down and headed over to where the Editor-in-Chief was standing. 

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Jones, but Yvonne would like to have these approved so she can start the—“

Speaking of the Gucci-parading oft-alleged wife of Satan herself, Yvonne Hartman swept into the room with not a coiffed blonde lock out of place and took in the odd assortment of individuals with an arched eyebrow.

“Rose, what on earth is taking you so long? I need Ianto to look at those before I can start the editorial.”

Rose blew a strand of blonde hair out of her face and bit her tongue to prevent a sharper response from slipping out. “I was just giving them to him, provided he has a free moment.” 

“Actually, I’m afraid he doesn’t,” Ianto cut across her, shooting an apologetic glance first at Yvonne and then Rose. “He’s very late for an important meeting with an investor. I’ll take them, and I promise they’ll be on your desk before lunch, Yvonne.” Rose handed him the large stack of paper which he tried to carefully balance around his folders. “Have you met John? He’s going to be writing a weekly piece for page ten. I’m afraid he set the schedule back a bit.”

Yvonne turned to John as if noticing him for the first time. She surveyed him head to toe with a critical eye that made him feel exposed and slightly indignant, though he wasn’t sure why.

“Yes, quite,” she said, as if she were confirming some unspoken question her mind. She looked distinctly unimpressed. “Amelia certainly does know how to pick them.”

Amy bristled. “Excuse me?”

“And that is _definitely_ my cue to leave,” Ianto said hurriedly, eager to retreat before the claws came out. “John, it’s a pleasure to have you.” There was a clumsy moment of shuffling as he tried to aim for a handshake around the bundle of papers in his arms, John offering some half hearted assistance before they gave up and instead just nodded awkwardly at each other. “And ladies,” he turned to his Editors, “please don’t break anything.” 

He darted out of the newsroom as quick as his burden would allow and Rose hid a giggle behind one hand. Ianto Jones was a sweetheart; she just wished she got the opportunity to interact with him more often. Amy and Yvonne, however, barely seemed to acknowledge his departure as they glared at each other, air crackling with irritation. 

“If John can’t be arsed to get out of bed in the morning, that hardly reflects on how I run my department.” Amy’s eyes narrowed further. 

John frowned, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Erm, that wasn’t really why I was—“

“On the contrary, that’s _exactly_ what it does.” Yvonne ignored him entirely, and he didn’t get much acknowledgment from his boss either. “How on earth is Ianto supposed to rely on you when you keep collecting all the waifs and strays who pout at you on the street?”

“Now, hold on—“ 

“At least I chose mine based on their merit and not their sex appeal!”

“How _dare_ you?” Yvonne gasped, hands quivering with anger. 

Amy snorted. “Let’s be honest, your assistant’s reputation has absolutely nothing to do with his _typing_ prowess, does it?”

John was watching the pair parry back and forth like strokes in tennis with bewilderment, so Rose sidled up beside him and nudged him in the shoulder. 

“I’d just leave it. They’re like this all the time—you’re more of an excuse than a reason. Mind you,” she grinned, “first day and you’re already causing trouble.” 

He scratched the back of his head amusedly. “I suppose I have a gift.”

“At least my department doesn’t look like the ward of a psychiatric institute.” 

“At least my employees actually _enjoy_ the work I give them!”

John sniffed and looked back down at Rose, somewhat unsure of what to do next while Amelia was otherwise occupied. “What say we get away from this and you accompany me to lunch?”

To his surprise Rose laughed him off. “It’s just gone ten, you mug. I only had breakfast about two hours ago.”

He rolled his eyes as if this new information made things highly inconvenient. “Oh, alright then,” he sighed, “what time do you normally have lunch?”

“I dunno. Twelveish?” 

“Twelveish it is then.”

**o-o-o**

The moment the clock struck twelveish John was waiting outside of the Local Press department examining the artwork as he waited for Rose. She found him with his hands shoved into the pockets of his suit peering curiously at some kind of abstract painting. Strokes of orange and gold covered the surface, intricately woven and sprinkled with dashes of pastel pinks and dark red hues. To Rose it was shapeless, though John seemed to be examining it and nodding to himself as if it all made perfect sense.

“What do you think?” he asked her, despite not turning his head to acknowledge her arrival. 

“Sort of looks like the colour that used to come out of my mate Shareen’s mouth when she’d had a few too many.” John let out a breath of laughter. “You?”

He leaned back and shrugged. “Oh, nothing important.” She could see words and pictures formulating behind his eyes but she left the subject at that since he was clearly not planning on sharing. As they headed for the stairs she threw a final look at the painting before shaking her head with a note of finality. There wasn’t a lot someone could get from something as seemingly aimless as that, tall mysterious almost-stranger or not. 

John had invited her out to lunch for every reason he’d used to justify dancing with her a few nights before—she seemed like fun. Besides his acquaintance with her through Jack they also happened to work at the same place which made a friendship supremely convenient. Not to mention she made herself as easy to get on with as someone he’d known for decades already, the five year age difference between them being barely noticeable. She was fresh and open and ready for any curveball he might throw her way; every quality he looked for in a friend. If he’d met her while he was travelling he probably would have invited her to come with him. After all, he only picked the best. 

Rose told him about the place she usually went for lunch with Mickey, Mott’s Diner, and it had stopped him dead in his tracks as a wide grin broke out. He’d then offered her his arm and declared lunch was entirely on him—after they entered the establishment she was quick to find out why. 

Wilf, the kindly old owner of the cafe, rushed out from behind the counter to meet them. 

“Sylvia just phoned, she did! ‘Course Harry said nothing, dratted li’l blighter, he loves keeping secrets a bit much, but Sylvia said Donna told ‘er and I said I didn’t believe it—yet ‘ere you are!” Wilf stopped mid-stride as he reached them, glaring at John suspiciously. “’ave you gotten taller?”

John smiled affectionately. “I stopped growing taller about ten years ago, Daddad. But I appreciate the sentiment. I’m assuming you’ve already met Rose?” 

Then the penny dropped. Wilfred Mott was Donna’s maternal grandfather, and seeing as Donna and John were cousins it was likely that Wilf was John’s grandfather too. It wasn’t too hard for Rose to connect the dots and greeted the elderly man with the same bright smile she always did. They briefly spoke about how small the world is (punctuated by an amused look from John) and how she’d met his grandson before Wilf offered them some chips on the house as they sat down at a table in the corner.

“Daddad?” she queried. 

John’s cheeks tinted a light pink. “When I was younger I couldn’t exactly pronounce Granddad. So we decided on Daddad.” 

“So the Mayor, the bloke who sells me chips—is there anyone I know that you’re not related to?” she said dryly. 

He chuckled in response but shrugged. “Coincidence, I’m almost sorry to say. It’s your world; I’m just passing through.” He leaned back and tugged on his ear. “Mind you, the universe clearly has something to say about us being friends.” 

Rose hummed in agreement, letting her gaze float around the Diner. After the affair with Mayor Harold Smith a few days ago she refused to let anything about John Smith surprise her—all she was expecting now was for him to secretly be related to the Queen. 

Mott’s Diner was a surprisingly modern place. It used to be a rustic sort of cafe, but a refurbishment a few years ago had turned it into a typical diner with the archetypal chequered black and white floor and the curved red leather seats. Each table was a polished shiny metal that Wilf took care of and a few stools lined the edge of the bar. There was absolutely no competition; besides being a charming place run by a lovely old man, Mott’s Diner served the best chips in London without a doubt. And now it looked like she might get the odd portion for free. 

“Being mates with you certainly has its...” she trailed off as she watched a couple a few seats away swoop into a searing kiss and she grimaced. “Nice. Just what I like to see with my chips.” 

John frowned for a moment before turning around to see. “You don’t think it’s sweet?”

“I think his jaw might unhinge in a minute and swallow her whole.”

“So you’re not for celebrating the, uh, power of love in public?” He looked amused and she shrugged. 

“I’m all for love and all that—just not full on makeouts over a quarter pounder. It should be something a little more private, don’cha think?”

John took another glance at the couple still completely oblivious. “I think, in a way, they’re doing us a kindness; they’re obviously confident enough with their relationship to show it to a reasonably busy cafe, and I suppose that confidence is something anyone wants in a relationship. They’ll take all the judgemental looks and comments from others because they’re going to show us all a little glimpse at how at ease that kind of love can be with everything.” 

Rose didn’t buy it for a second and leaned back in her chair with a dubious grin. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Are you a romantic or what?” 

“I just look at things. You know, really look.” Rose raised an eyebrow. “Okay,” he started, dropping a chip in his mouth and speaking whilst he chewed. “Look over in that corner—tell me what you see.” 

At first she just gave him a disbelieving look until he waved a hand to encourage her. She rolled her eyes and did as he asked. There she spotted a family tucking into some lunch; a mother, husband and three children, one of which was sitting in a high chair dribbling on its bib and gurgling loudly. Beside it the other two children were making almost equal amounts of noise while they crashed their action figures into bowls of crisps. She wasn’t that enthused at the task so she just made a blunt answer. 

“Erm, parents and their kids being a bit annoying. Playing with toys at the table and disturbing everyone else in here.” 

John shook his head immediately with a frown, pausing to swallow his chip. “Oh,” he exclaimed once he’d finished, “you’re missing all the important bits!”

“You what?”

“Look at the children’s faces,” he spoke so earnestly and enthusiastically that she obliged. “But _really_ look. See how absorbed they are? That ‘playing with toys’ is the climactic battle between Captain Silver and the Mighty Morgloff, the kind of cataclysmic confrontation that’s been building in their household for _days_.” Rose nearly laughed, but for seeing the serious expression on his face as he watched them. “They’re playing pretend, Rose—which to a child is their reality.” Finally he turned back to her with a reverential smile. “What we’re watching right now is the true centre of the universe for those children.” 

His companion blinked. A few seconds passed. “Yeah,” she finally said, “ _right._ ”

John understood he hadn’t quite connected in the way he wanted to. Instead he used a chip to point to a man sitting by himself only a few tables over and lowered his voice accordingly. “What about that bloke?”

Rose shrugged. “Sitting alone, probably been stood up. That’s why there’s a second untouched glass—the champagne makes me think date.” John didn’t say anything and she looked back at him eating his chips innocently. “Oh, alright. What do you think?”

“He’s a man waiting to propose—see how his hand keeps inching towards his right pocket? The champagne is there to wear her down, and he hasn’t been stood up. He’s arrived ten minutes early because he wants time to recite his speech in his head.”

Rose couldn’t stop herself laughing. “Proposing? In a diner, at midday?” It was ludicrous. 

John didn’t seem to understand her amusement and looked at her blankly. “What? What’s wrong with that?”

“Alright, alright,” she suppressed her mirth, getting into the game a little more and now prepared to test him. She pointed at a woman sitting by the bar with a glass of water and a bowl of cashews. “What about her then?”

“She,” John mused around a chip, “is an international code breaker waiting to meet with an agent for the secret service. In her inside pocket is an envelope containing translated messages that could bring this country to its knees.”

Absolutely lost to this explanation Rose could only give up trying not to act entertained and threw her head back and laughed as she chucked a chip in his direction. He retaliated in kind and she shook her head. “You are definitely just looking for stuff that isn’t there.”

“But isn’t that better?” He leaned forward and looked her in the eye as if trying to discern something from her expression. “Isn’t it better to look and imagine and have the potential of discovering something wonderful instead of just observing and accepting?” His sincerity made her amusement feel like levity, and in a short while her mirth had faded. She remained silent for a few moments, long enough for John’s confidence to falter slightly. “What?”

“It’s just...” She trailed off quietly, reaching for a chip. “You just see the world so differently.”

She thought of that painting back at Gallifrey; the blur of orange and gold that meant nothing but strokes on canvas to her. What had John seen when he stood staring at the paintwork? Some inner hidden meaning the rest of the world might skim over?

He held her gaze. “Shall I take that as a compliment?”

“How do you do it?”

Leaning backwards John crossed his legs and adopted a thoughtful pose. Realising how daft the question sounded Rose was ready to take it back, but the expression on his face stopped her—like he’d taken her entirely seriously and was trying to find a way to sum it up accurately. 

“It’s like,” a thought seemed to strike him but he stopped; then his eyes lit up like the light bulb of an idea. “I know what it’s like. It’s like when you’re a kid, the first time they tell you that the Earth is turning and you can’t quite believe it ‘cause everything looks like it’s standing still.” John paused to check she was following, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I think about that. The turn of the Earth. Sometimes I even think I can _feel_ it—the ground beneath our feet spinning at a thousand miles an hour. This entire planet is hurtling around the Sun at sixty-seven thousand miles an hour, and I reckon I can feel it. It’s like we’re falling through space, you and me,” by now the smile had dropped, replaced by an intensity that made her sense the movement of the stars and the orbit of the moon, “clinging to the skin of this tiny little world. And doesn’t that make you feel...” He sucked in a deep breath, searching for a word. “Fantastic?” 

Rose, for her part, had found herself hanging on his every word in rapt fascination. She wasn’t sure she’d met anybody who spoke the way John did, like music rolled from his very tongue and danced around her completely enveloping her in the soft cushion of his low voice. There was a piercing quality to his deep brown eyes now—for the first time she saw the resemblance between he and Harold Smith. They shared the same sort of quiet and commanding power that John usually buried beneath grins and quips but his brother never bothered to hide.

By the time she realised he’d asked her a question and was actually expecting an answer she’d left it far too late to reply sensibly. 

“I dunno...” she breathed, before dropping her gaze and breaking the moment. She resisted the urge to sigh with relief at the release. “I guess.” 

Then as if it had never happened, the depth was gone from John’s expression and was replaced by an exaggerated almost indignant sigh. “’I guess’,” he repeated, “ _’I guess’_? I have high hopes for you, Rose Tyler, please tell me you’ve got something more interesting to contribute than ‘I guess’.” 

“ _I guess_ ,” she said again to tease him, “it’s just that I’ve been stuck for so long. Dead end job, same old friends, same old life. Sometimes I forget we’re,” she briefly paused to remember the words he’d used, “hurtling through space and all that.” 

John smiled, satisfied with this kind of response. With the intimacy of his previous speech still clinging to the air, Rose felt compelled to offer something in return. He’d shared something clearly quite personal; weren’t friendships about returning the favour?

“I want to be an investigative journalist,” she admitted. “A proper one. But to do it I need proper connections—people higher up in the business to corroborate your stories and give you credibility—connections I’ll never get.” She munched on another chip. “Yvonne’s got me like a donkey after a carrot; doing all the crappy stories in the hopes she might someday mention my name somewhere.”

“That hardly seems fair.”

Rose shrugged. “A lot of things aren’t. Surely just learning to accept that is a part of life?”

John was shaking his head before she’d even finished speaking. “I don’t believe that,” he said firmly, “I can’t believe that. Life is about standing up for what you want and what you believe in because no one else will do it for you.”

“I have a story,” she confessed. “Sort of—something I’ve been working on.” She could see he was curious as to its nature but she couldn’t afford to give anything away and hastened to continue. “But Yvonne would never give me the opportunity to break it, if I ever get to the bottom of it. You talk big, John, but it isn’t that easy to find a way out.” 

In response he clicked his tongue and fished around their bowl for the last chip, offering it to her. She took it.

After a few moments he spoke. “I was like you, once. Feeling like I’d been working towards something pointless my whole life—academia.” He sniffed and ran a hand through his hair. “I did a bachelor’s in physics and computer science while I was living in Paris. Moved back to London to do a master’s, then spent the next two years working towards a PhD. Then, suddenly, the work just... stopped. I didn’t know what to do next. I’d lost seven years of my life to that subject and I had no idea what came after.” He chuckled. “Had a bit of an existential crisis. The meaning of life, the futility of existence, all that stuff.”

“Bet you were the life of the party ‘round then.”

He snorted. “Oh, you should’ve seen me. I had no idea what to do with my life—so I just took matters into my own hands. I left. Removed myself from the situation that was making me unhappy.” 

A glimmer of understanding flickered in her eyes. “That’s when you went travelling?”

“A voyage of self discovery,” he mused. “Well, something roundabout as pretentious as that I suppose.”

This didn’t quite sit right with Rose. She knew likely that would have been a very valid reason to change your life or leave it behind, but she’d seen Jack in the months following his departure. He’d been hurting. Something had to have happened. 

“But that’s—“ She didn’t know if she was being rude by asking. “That can’t be the only reason you went, can it?”

John eyed her for a long moment. “No,” he said as he turned away. Rose waited to see if he’d continue. “I... I let someone down.” It seemed to be guilt that caused him to shut himself away and perhaps prevented honesty. “And I didn’t have the guts to face it.”

Rose held her breath. “But now?”

His mouth opened and was about to reply when the pulsing beat of _Baby Got Back_ floated up from her inside pocket. She reddened immediately. 

“That’s—that’s me, sorry.” At John’s raised eyebrow she wanted to shrink into a corner and never show her face again. “Friend’s prank. Um, been meaning to change it.” The corner of his mouth quirked upwards as he picked up the now empty bowl of chips and pointed to the bar. She was going to _kill_ Mickey.

After clearing her throat she answered it—an unknown number. “Rose Tyler.” 

On the other side she was met with violent sobbing. 

John evaded Wilf’s suggestive grins as he nodded to Rose with a practiced ease, still keeping an eye on her as she answered the phone. He thought it best to give her a little privacy for it. The one side of the conversation he heard didn’t make a lot of sense. 

“Hello? Erm, who is—? Tallulah, is that you? What is it?” Rose bit her lip, slowly rising to her feet. “Who’s gone? Hold on, just—just slow down, I can’t understand you. Where are you now? Listen, I’ll be there in twenty minutes, yeah? Don’t move! And calm down. Seriously, have a drink of water—but stay put. I’ll be right there.”

As she slipped the phone back into her pocket and picked up her coat, John made his way back over. “Everything alright?” His concern was rising.

“Fine,” Rose gave him the falsest smile possible, but he didn’t push. “Sorry, I’ve gotta take off—thanks for the chips.” 

On an impulse she reached up and kissed him on the cheek before speeding towards the exit of the cafe, leaving John standing bewildered in her wake.

**o-o-o**

**24th October, twenty-six months before the wedding.**

Cardboard boxes lined the walls of Jack’s tiny apartment, all piled messily on top of each other like a lacklustre imitation of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Stacks of someone’s life were being compartmentalised into “fragile” and “miscellaneous” like a methodically split personality. Rose only caught glimpses of a person, the shadow of some unidentifiable man whose impact on Jack and his life was cluttered around every corner of the flat. The man who used to live there walked the hallway like a ghost painted with his possessions and unfinished business. 

She knew it was a sensitive subject so she’d resisted asking too many questions about the man; all she knew was that his name was John. It was like speaking about him was some kind of taboo. Jack was tight-lipped about everything, simply saying he was finally packing up the man’s stuff and sending it all to storage. 

“I’m fed up of being alone,” Jack had said, “so I’m asking Mickey if he wants to move in.” 

He hadn’t asked for help with sorting everything but when she’d offered he’d nodded; she sensed he needed the emotional support. Rose had only been back in London for three months and his old roommate had been gone for five—she didn’t know anything about the man, except that the pair of them had been close. John’s departure had affected him deeply, but he refused to talk about it. They conducted most of their clearing work in silence.

Rose picked up a strange model or paperweight of something that resembled a dragon with fins and placed it carefully in a box labelled ‘fragile’. 

“Why now?” she asked hesitantly, pausing to throw a glance at Jack shuffling through some papers over the other side of the room. 

“I told you,” he shrugged, “I’m sick of being alone. You know I hate it.”

“I know _that_. I just mean—why not earlier?”

Jack stopped his movement and looked up from the folders. His eyes seemed a little glazed and unfocused, as if he were staring at someone in the doorway who wasn’t there anymore. Rose was overcome with the feeling that she was intruding on a private moment. “I guess,” he replied slowly, “I thought he’d come back. Now I don’t. He wasn’t very... specific about it.”

“Can’t you get in touch?”

Jack laughed. “Yeah. Sure.”

It didn’t seem like that strange a question to her so she continued to push. “Isn’t it weird though? Just upping and leaving all his stuff if he isn’t coming back?”

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards and his eyes softened, like someone pondering over a fond memory. “John’s a bit of a free spirit. Freer than free. Material objects aren’t exactly his... y’know, thing. He probably couldn’t care less if I incinerated everything he left.” He cleared his throat. “Well, he might care a bit. I’m half tempted to do it just to release some tension.” 

Rose felt something in Jack’s tone tug at her heart. 

“He hurt you, didn’t he Jack?”

Just like that, he slammed shut like a clam. “Doesn’t matter now, does it? John is a brilliant man, and he was a fantastic part of my life. But he’s moved on now—“ He dropped the papers into an open box and crushed the lid on top. “—And so should I.” Then he picked up the box and left the room without another word. 

The one thing Rose hadn’t seen that might have helped her to understand the unknowable man was the small letter Jack had retrieved from the mass of John’s papers and stuffed into his pocket as he left. The same letter he’d found left for him behind the desk of Sat-Five the night his best friend had departed the country. The same letter that, five months on, he still found himself re-reading again and again for any trace or hint of a return. The more time dragged on, the more he doubted the messily scrawled words on the crinkled bit of paper. 

_Jack,_ it read. 

_I’ll be long gone by now, and I’m sorry. Sorry I might not see the Time Agency become the most proudly reputed business on the riverside. Sorry I might not be there for Kathy’s first birthday, or Sally’s fourth. Sorry I might miss you finally fall in love with someone, and I might not be there to annoy the shit out of both of you by insisting on being at home every night, like you did for me. I’m sorry you might not be able to introduce me to them. I’m sure they’ll be lovely; your judgement is sound. I’m sorry I might not be there—but Jack, I still might._

_Do you remember what River said to you the first day you met her? ‘You watch us run.’ Well I’m running, Jack, but I’m running alone. You probably think I’m running from her, or the job, or the nothingness. Maybe part of me is. All I know is I don’t feel like I’m running away from anything at all—I’m running_ towards _something. The rest of the world, Jack. Just me and it. I’m going to Neverwhere and Otherplace and all those destinations we dreamt up in your tiny little office, with just a rucksack, a journal and my wits to keep me going. You’d love it. I wish you could come with me. But you’ve got a life here and I don’t want you to leave it._

_I’ve left the Tardis at my mum’s, and everything I own is yours to use and lose at your leisure. These past few years have been the greatest of my life, thank you. All that I am is because of you. Oh, and before I forget; I’m coming back. I might not even have time to miss all those things. I hope I won’t._

_River was right. I am running, Jack—you just watch me._

_John_


	6. don't speak, liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's not a lot of John and Rose in this one, but I promise that's about to change. We meet Dr. Martha Jones and Mickey Smith makes a bad decision. Thanks to everyone following this, I love seeing what you think! :D

“Dr. Jones? Your five o’clock just rang to cancel so you’re done for the day. Do you still want me to pick up your prescription or would you rather do it yourself?”

Martha looked up from her desk. “Well, if I’ve got the time I’ll do it myself. Thanks Joan.”

Her assistant nodded and smiled as she shut the door behind her. Martha couldn’t say she was surprised that the man had cancelled—paralytically afraid of spiders as he was, she’d almost predicted him backing out of the session they were due to try flooding therapy despite the fact that they’d discussed it and he’d agreed to it beforehand. Flooding, or prolonged exposure, was a therapy that would consist of leaving him shut inside the office with a great deal of spiders until his fear response stopped. Of course she had many relaxation techniques to go over with him beforehand and it would be carried out entirely under controlled conditions, but it still wasn’t a treatment she was enthused to use. It was comparable to forcing someone to quit an addiction cold turkey. Unfortunately Lance’s lack of improvement in response to any other kind of treatment had left her with little choice.

She just wished she now knew what to do with all the spiders placed in jars at the other end of her office.

Suddenly her door opened and jerked her from her thoughts, instinctively reaching to straighten out some paper so it didn’t look like she’d been daydreaming. As she finally looked into the face of the man standing in the doorway she scoffed, folding her arms and leaning back in her chair. John Smith had a lot of nerve walking into her office with that same unabashed confidence he always had. She half expected to see a lazy smirk in place as he watched her and was almost disconcerted by the trepidation she found in his eyes. She couldn’t reprove him that—he certainly had reason to be anxious.

“Well, if it isn’t the mighty Doctor himself.”

Joan had always had a bit of a soft spot for the man, no doubt he flirted with her a little and she waved him on through to her office.

She watched his face fall at the nickname. “Hey.”

Martha tilted her head to the side. “Took you a little more than eighty days to travel the world, did it?”

John finally came away from the door and ran a hand through his hair. He was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet—just as restless as ever, she observed.

“Listen I know you’re probably a bit—a bit angry at me—“

“Angry?” Martha looked at him blankly. “No, John. I’m not angry.”

John blinked. “You’re not?”

“I’m not. I’m past angry. I’m _livid_.” John shifted guiltily. “Two years on, and—“

“Twenty months,” he corrected quietly.

“—and I am _still_ furious with you!” she finished in a clipped tone.

John had the good grace to act contrite. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, I guess that makes it alright then.” Movement out of the corner of her eye made her turn to the open doorway, just in time to see Joan duck innocently out of sight. This wasn’t exactly a conversation she wanted to be observed; client-doctor confidentiality, and all that. She stood and curtly brushed past John to shut the door behind him. “You’d missed five appointments,” she continued briskly, “you wouldn’t answer your phone. Do you realise how _worried_ I was? You could have died and I’d never have known!”

He cleared his throat. “To be fair I, erm, I didn’t really—didn’t really tell _anyone_ except Jack, so—“

“Oh yes, Jack,” Martha laughed mirthlessly as she moved back to her desk and began straightening papers. “You can imagine my surprise when I finally managed to get hold of him and he told me you left him without a word and a ‘Dear John’ letter.”

“That’s... not really what I did.”

“Two years and everyone else might’ve forgiven you, but I haven’t,” she muttered as she straightened her skirt and sat down. “And I’m still bloody pissed off.”

Martha immediately went back to the documents she was evaluating before in a defiant act of dismissal, though John remained hovering awkwardly in front of her. He clearly didn’t want to leave things between them messy but she pretended not to notice him.

“You’ve redecorated,” he commented, looking around the office and obviously searching for some way of prolonging the conversation. Martha glanced up at him with a dubious look; she’d only changed the wallpaper. “I don’t like it.” She clicked her tongue loudly. _That_ was much more like him.

“Good thing it’s not your problem then.” Finally her gaze slid to his and she saw everything she wanted to and more—remorse, genuine affection, sadness. He was only a twitch of the mouth away from a pout and she could feel her resolve weakening. It was hardly her fault that John had perfected the kicked puppy look. She’d been determined to stay strong and not cave to him, but there was something entrancing about John Smith. There always had been. That was what made his problem all the more dangerous to those around him.

“Aside from being... annoyed,” Martha tried again, making sure to keep her tone clinical and professional. “It is still good to see you, I suppose. Did you enjoy your run?” She stared at him hard.

“Yes,” he replied with a pleased smile, before realising what she’d asked and frowning. “Wait, uh, no. I mean, it wasn’t a run.”

Here she allowed amusement to tug at the corner of her mouth. “I’m your therapist, John. I can tell the moment your toes twitch that you’re going to run, and this one was a marathon and then some.”

He ignored her comment and scratched his ear as he continued. “Ah, yes, part of the reason I came by. I just wanted to say I’m back in London but I won’t be needing any more sessions. I’m very grateful for all you’ve done but I think I’m okay now.”

This threw her off. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m okay now,” he repeated, as if it weren’t a big issue. “All good. Molto bene.”

She didn’t believe it for a second. “The last time we spoke you needed a lot of help,” she pointed out carefully.

“Yeah, well I’m cured.” John met her scrutiny with a challenging look of his own and she felt some of the quiet tempest he usually kept behind his eyes creep to the surface. She refused to be intimidated.

“Funny,” she mused, “that’s exactly what someone who needed help would say.”

He didn’t reply immediately as they each attempted to stare down the other; one with the weight of years in the psychotherapy practice behind her and the other simply an oncoming storm prepared to defend himself in the light of her ‘experience’.

Eventually he looked away as he fell back towards the shut door. “Anyway, I just came to say sorry for before. And hello again.” He fixed her with a bright grin, the kind she knew to be fake. “And—thanks, for everything you did before. You were brilliant.”

Martha nodded, and he clicked open the door.

“John?” she called after him before he could step out her office completely. “If you ever need to talk—I’m not saying come back to our sessions, and I’m not saying book an appointment, but if you ever need to _talk_ ,” she nodded emphatically. “You’ve got my number. And my door is always open.”

John smiled softly, genuine warmth radiating from his eyes. “Thank you,” he said. And he meant it.

“Oh, and John?” Martha started again. He poked his head back in at her call. “I don’t suppose you feel like taking a spider or two off my hands?”

**o-o-o**

**3rd February, thirty-four months before the wedding. (And three months before a different one).**

Martha was completely stunned. “What do you mean you accidentally proposed to her? How can you _accidentally_ propose to someone?”

John was sat in the chair opposite her, elbows resting on his knees and his face buried in his hands as he groaned. It had all happened so fast he barely had time to regain his bearings before she was smirking and apparently he’d just proposed.

Martha’s office was a welcoming sort of place, as it always had been; it was somewhere John could be completely himself and not care what anyone thought. It was the sort of place where he didn’t have to bother hiding any of his ugly thoughts, and he spent time there with company that would never judge him. When Donna had first recommended going to see Dr. Martha Jones he’d been sceptical (he didn’t need a _doctor_ , what was that all about?) but he couldn’t be gladder he’d made the decision to book an appointment.

The therapist had certainly made the space her own—at the back of the office she’d placed her desk and her files, cabinets full of documentation on clients not for anyone’s eyes but her own, neat and tidy and tucked away by the large panelled window. In the more open space of the office was where the real work happened and she met her patients. In the centre of the room she’d placed a smart Persian rug of rich blues and reds and a sofa with two chairs, the furniture all made from maroon padded leather. She’d wanted it to be colourful and exotic, a place where any client would feel free to explore both mentally and physically what had brought them to her office in the first place. She usually took one of the chairs by a small coffee table, and her clients were welcome to whichever other piece of furniture they felt most comfortable.

John often preferred to pace around the office or lounge on the sofa like the drama queen she often called him out on being, so it was a testament to his melancholy that he was slumped in one of the comfy armchairs instead.

“I don’t know!” he moaned, aghast. “She was speaking so quickly and not answering my questions properly and then I think—I _think_ I proposed, but I’m not sure?”

“Right.” Martha tapped out a quick text to Joan saying she’d be working through her lunch break on this one. Then she placed her folder down so she could give him her full attention. “Talk me through it. What exactly did she say?”

John fell back in the chair with a sigh, eyes staring at the ceiling. “It was while we were at Donna and Lee’s wedding last weekend,” he perked up a little as he remembered Martha’s presence there. “Lovely ceremony, wasn’t it? And the nibbles! Oh the nibbles were brilliant, as they often—“

“Focus, John.”

“Right.” He swallowed, letting his head drop back again. “Well, you know all about River. You probably know as much about River as I do, which isn’t a lot. She’s always been this, this enigma to me—you know that, I’ve only told you a thousand times. She’s so unattached, independent; not so easy to define. I think that’s what attracted me to her in the first place. After all this time I still feel like I know nothing about her. And I don’t know why I asked, I just,” he clenched a frustrated fist in his hair. “I just did.”

_“Are you married, River?”_

_“Are you asking?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“No, hang on a second—did you think I was asking if you were married, or, uh, asking you to marry me?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“But was that a yes or a... yes?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Now I’m confused.”_

_She tossed some of her curls over one shoulder with a simper in his direction. “I guess I could marry you. Depends if I can fit you in my schedule.”_

_“Now, hold on,” John allowed himself a little indignation at this, “I’m hardly something you ‘fit in’. I am the schedule.”_

_“Well then set a date and I’ll be there.”_

_John blinked. “Sorry?”_

_“Early summer’s a good time for a wedding, don’t you think?”_

_“Who’s wedding?”_

_“My wedding.”_

_“Your wedding?”_

_“And your wedding.”_

_“Are—are those the same wedding?”_

_Here River stepped forward and tugged on his tie tip-toeing her finger up his lapel with a coy smile. Then she pulled him down to her level and let the ghost of her answer tickle his ear._

_“Yes.”_

“And then she, erm—well she kissed me and things... well, you know. I haven’t really had a chance to properly talk to her about it yet.”

Once John had finished retelling it he allowed Martha time to process, as he always did. She clicked her tongue once before crossing one leg over the other. If she were acting as his friend and not his therapist at that moment she might have a sharp word or two to dish out on account of his stupidity, but the promise she made in her profession was to understand every client’s decision and offer help, not pass judgement. It was just so very _John_ to not know whether or not he proposed to someone.

“Well, remember all the steps we’ve talked about. When you make decisions regarding your relationships break them down properly. Evaluate them—“

“—Justify them, and follow through. I know, I know.” He leaned forward again and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

Martha nodded. “Then go ahead. Marrying River Song is the decision, so evaluate it.”

His reluctance was readable in every twitch of his finger. “I never really... I never really imagined myself marrying anyone, ever.” He ran a hand through his hair. “The rest of my life is, ehm, an awfully long time to spend with one person.” She nodded, and waited for him to continue. “But, I guess, if there was anyone I’d ever pick to marry... it would be River Song. So I guess evaluation says I would.”

“Okay,” she continued, ready to move things along. “Now justify it.”

John looked down at his hands and fidgeted. “I’ve been dating River, on and off, for two years now... I guess after two years getting married is the logical step.”

“No,” she interrupted with a firm look. “’Should’ is not a good enough justification. ‘Should’ implies reluctance. You have to want this for you to follow through.”

“Fine,” he said a little too forcefully, his impatience wearing through a bit. “I’ve been dating River for two years and _wouldn’t mind_ spending the rest of... the rest of my life with her.”

Martha was silent. “Does that feel like enough of a reason for you to follow through?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed.

“If I asked you to walk down the aisle tomorrow with River standing at the other end, do you think you could do it?”

John gave her a pained look.

“I don’t know.”

****

o-o-o

**Twelve months before the wedding.**

To: Rose Marion Tyler (rose.tyler@gallifrey.org)  
From: Unknown (mrsmoore2.5@gmail.com)  
Subject: RE: Skaro

Ms. Tyler

They know someone has been talking and they may find me out any day now. I cannot help you anymore. Please take all the information I have given you and expose them. Do not contact me again.

Mrs. Moore

“Bollocks!” Rose cursed, fisting a hand in her hair. In the cubicle across from hers the kindly Mr. Lethbridge-Stewart looked over in concern. She offered him a weak smile. “Sorry Alistair. Ruddy thing keeps freezing.” He gave her a sympathetic look before retreating to his own work—that was the way to get him Alistair to bow out of your business. Mention something electrical; he wasn’t exactly adept at working with some of the equipment at Gallifrey. Bless his cotton socks and his daily struggles with the coffee machine.

Turning her attention back to her screen, Rose tried not to let hope completely dissipate. So her contact inside Skaro may be rumbled, so what? That didn’t mean she had to give up on the story. Not since she’d worked so hard on it—it was what Mrs. Moore wanted, after all. She just had no idea what to do next. Who could she possibly talk to? The police had already turned her away as a waste of time and even the Mayor didn’t seem keen on getting involved.

She had Tallulah, which was something. Ever since she’d called her a few days ago in a right state she’d officially allied herself with the journalist, as a result of someone going missing who was very dear to her.

Rose had sprinted to the street she’d first met Tallulah after abandoning John in Mott’s Diner, worry clenching her insides and spurring her on in equal measure. By the time she’d arrived the woman had calmed down significantly but the message was the same.

“I—I—I didn’t know wh-who to call,” Tallulah had hurried to say, getting the words out between deep breaths. “Then I f-found your number, I’m sorry Rose, I ju-just need help.”

“What’s going on?” Rose had wheezed, leaning against a bollard to try and catch her breath.

“They took Lazlo.” Tallulah’s eyes had welled up with a fresh set of tears. “They t-took my Lazlo.” At Rose’s blank expression the woman had continued. “My boyfriend. The best—the best thing that ever ha-happened to me.”

“Who did? Who took him, Tallulah?”

The woman’s expression had hardened. “Skaro did.”

When Tallulah had told her she knew nothing about Skaro, she had lied. That crime of omission may have cost her boyfriend’s life, and now she was prepared to make up for it. She’d told Rose everything she knew about the project, or the “final experiment” as it was sometimes called, and agreed to inform her of anything new she discovered, figuratively becoming Rose’s eyes and ears on the street. Unfortunately nothing Tallulah had told her was anything she hadn’t found out already through Mrs. Moore, but her help was still much appreciated. Rose lacked some real, concrete proof, and she needed it desperately.

“If you find out anything at all—and I mean _anything_ , Tallulah,” Rose had implored her, “you tell me straight away, yeah? We’ll get to the bottom of this, even if it’s just you and me.”

It was difficult to find people she could trust.

Strangely, her thoughts turned to John. They’d barely known each other for two weeks, but she found it hard to associate him with anything except trustworthy in her head. He was frank and honest with her, and very open with his opinions. His tirade about the turn of the Earth was something that still tapped across her consciousness in quiet moments; she wouldn’t mind knowing what it was like living inside his head. Just occasionally it would be nice to see the world as bright and shining as he saw it. With Skaro hanging over her it was a little difficult to do.

The day after they’d gone for chips at Mott’s Diner he’d appeared at her desk around twelve with a boyish grin and the same proposal; lunch. The day after, the same. Today she wasn’t expecting any different and refused to admit to herself that she might be looking forward to it. He was just a friend of Jack’s—and hopefully soon a friend of hers. The fact that he looked fantastic in a tight suit had nothing to do with it. Their conversations had stayed far more jovial in nature since that first day at Mott’s, focusing more on getting to know one another and swapping stories much as they did the night at Sat-Five. It was always fun to talk to someone new.

True enough, at four minutes past twelve John was standing in the doorway to her cubicle with a lopsided smile.

“Lunch?”

Rose swivelled around in her chair with a teasing grin. “Twelveish on the dot. I’m beginning to think you must spend all day counting down to lunch.”

“Why shouldn’t I? He walked inside and began flicking at a few of the post-its she’d stuck on her notice board. “Free meal with a beautiful woman, what’s not to like?”

She feigned a sigh. “Well, I can’t keep having chips for lunch.” She let a teasing lilt lace her tone. “If you want me to come with you you’ll have to up your game.”

“Oh, a challenge?” John shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, you’ll be glad to know I have something special planned for today—if you decide to come, that is.”

“And what’s that?” 

He tutted and shook his head. “If I told you I’d have to kill you.”

With a laugh she nodded, and was rewarded with a toothy grin. “I’ll meet you outside, yeah? I’ve got a few things I need to finish up first.” John nodded the affirmative before disappearing behind the plastic wall of her cubicle.

He really was the strangest man; unconcerned was the most recent adjective she’d decided summed him up adequately. John Smith was completely unconcerned with what people thought of him, how quickly he completed his work, whether or not he met deadlines and kept to dates. She remembered Jack mentioning something about it that night at Sat-Five, how he preferred to work within the paradigms of his own imaginary schedule. Now she had to admit she believed him as she watched it happen right in front of her every day.

She was startled from her musings by the buzz of her mobile across her desk, and picked it up without bothering to check the caller ID. “Rose Tyler.”

“Babe!” Came Mickey’s cheerful voice from the other end. “Where’ve you been?”

“I’m at work, Micks,” she chided, but couldn’t quite stop it sounding playful. “What are you after?”

“A lunch date with a gorgeous girl.”

Rose bit her lip, staring in the direction John had bounded off in. “Sorry I, erm, I can’t today. Maybe next week?”

She could hear a huff from his end of the line. “It was only last week you were telling me you couldn’t go a week without seeing me at least twice,” he pointed out, “I haven’t seen you at _all_ this week. We haven’t been to Mott’s in nearly six days!”

“I’ve been to Mott’s,” she replied distractedly, jotting down the phone number for a contact on a post-it.

“With who?”

Rose wasn’t sure he’d appreciate her telling him she’d spent the last three days going out to their usual lunch spot with a bloke he hated. “Just a mate from work.” Not completely a lie.

“Lynda?”

“Yeah,” Rose agreed, “Lynda. Listen, I’ve gotta go, she’s waiting.”

“Wait, uh,” he was quick to reply, “you know this means you owe me, right?”

“What?”

“For not meeting me for lunch at all, and going to Mott’s without me. You owe me.”

Rose chuckled. “What, then?”

“Erm,” he didn’t sound too confident about asking, “dinner? Two missed lunches is the same as a dinner, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she laughed, “could be. Sounds lovely, Micks. When?”

“Er, Friday night? I’ll, um, pick you up.”

“Well, _um_ ,” she teased, “we better go someplace swanky. But not Sat-Five, we can’t go there without Jack.” Mickey agreed and they swapped details before she hung up. She felt a little guilty for lying about John, Mickey was her best friend after all, she just didn’t want to upset him; she’d tell him at dinner on Friday for sure. Thinking about it, she wondered if Mickey would mind if she invited Jack along to dinner with them—it never seemed right to her when only two out of the three friends went out together. She made a mental note to ask him if it’d bother him.

Rose grabbed her coat and shrugged it on as she headed for the door to the newsroom. On her way out she spotted Yvonne in her office, who caught her eye and tapped at her watch in annoyance. Rose resisted the urge to stick out her tongue in response; she was entitled to at least an hour’s lunch break. She met John outside, who offered her his arm and she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow—he was always very gallant about taking her to lunch and she refused to admit she enjoyed it a little. It reminded her a lot of Jack, in a comforting sort of way. The more time she spent with the man the more similarities she spotted between them; not least their partiality to long coats.

She nudged him with her shoulder. “So where are we going?”

“Before we get onto that I just wanted to ask you something first.” He looked pensive and Rose wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“Uh, sure. Go ahead.”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day,” he mused as they started walking down the street, “about me being all talk. And it got me thinking—well, most things get me thinking, but I was thinking particularly thinkingly about this when I got a call from Harry. It’s his birthday next week and he’s having this party, a cocktail reception type thing. It’s not really my slice of pie but being his brother I’m a VIP. He’s inviting all sorts, big business magnates, politicians,” he gave her a significant look, “journalists. Loads of big journalists apparently—the crème de la crème of journalists, he described them as. All perpetually looking for fresh blood, and they’re all going to be there at this party.”

Rose halted wide eyed when she realised where this might be going.

“And the thing is, I’ve got this spare ticket and I thought—“ He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence as Rose lunged at him and threw her arms around his neck trying to hold back a squeal. Then suddenly she pulled back.

“You meant me, right? You’re inviting me aren’t you?”

“No, Mickey,” John rolled his eyes. “Of course I’m inviting you!” Rose patted her hands on his forearms in delight.

“Oh my God, you’re serious. You’re deadly serious. But you haven’t even known me for two weeks!”

He resisted the urge to say he felt like he’d known her for londer and shrugged. “I have a soft spot for people I’ve just met.” Which, if he was honest with himself, was probably true. “Now listen,” he folded her hand back into the crook of his arm and set them walking again, using his free hand to point a stern finger in her direction. “I’m _not_ implying that I don’t think you can make connections with world renowned journalists all on your own, because I’m convinced you can. You’re brilliant.” His confidence brought a reddish tinge to her cheeks. “I just thought I’d give you a push in the right direction. When we get there you’re on your own, since I’ll probably talk them all to death. Are we clear?”

“Like glass,” she beamed. It was impossible to wipe the smile off her face. “Thank you, John. Really—thank you.” She couldn’t quite wrap her head round it; she was going to be at a party mixing with some of the leading names in media, the kind personally invited by the _Mayor_ , and she didn’t have to worry about Yvonne Hartman at all. She didn’t even have to think about Gallifrey. She just had to present herself as hardworking and willing and she might have a chance of meeting someone who could genuinely help her. Not just with Skaro, with her entire _career_. “When is it?”

“Next Friday.” Rose cursed and he frowned. “Why, can’t you come?”

She bit her bottom lip. Dinner with Mickey was set for Friday night. “No, no—I can, I was just gonna go for dinner with... with a mate. He’ll understand. It’s fine.” She wasn’t sure if she was reassuring John or herself—Mickey was a fantastic friend, always there for her when she needed him. Surely he’d be able to concede for something that could launch her career? “Anyway,” she tried to change the subject, “so where are we going? I’m starving.”

“You tell me,” John grinned, “I figured after I invited you to Harry’s you’d be _so_ grateful that you’d want to take _me_ out for lunch.”

Rose let her hand drop from his arm and tried not to smile. “That was awfully presumptuous of you.” She prodded him in the shoulder.

“True though,” he waggled his eyebrows. “Am I right? I’m totally right. Come on Rose, I’m taking you to the poshest party in London!”

“I suppose,” she heaved a sigh, “I _could_ take you somewhere.” Before he could voice his triumph she shot him a teasing smirk. “I hope you like seafood.”

****

o-o-o

“What is my... favourite colour?”

“Pink. Or yellow. Yellowy pink?”

“Blue,” Rose corrected. “And yours is...” She looked at the man sitting opposite her up and down. “Orange?”

“Mauve.”

“Mauve?”

“Universally recognised colour for danger.” His expression remained completely serious as he spoke around the chip he was chewing. ( _Cheater_ , he’d told her, when he realised she was taking him for fish and chips).

Rose snorted. “In what universe? My Little Pony?”

“Ah, guess I better phone Donna and bring her to Harry’s birthday instead...”

“No!” she laughed, “Stop it, I didn’t mean it. Please still let me come.” She tilted her head and stared imploringly at him. They were interrupted by the buzz of John’s phone in his pocket—something significantly less embarrassing, Rose observed enviously. He apologised and fished it out of his coat.

“John Smith. Hullo Harry. Yup, I’m definitely coming. Yeah. I’m bringing Rose if that’s alright—you remember Rose? No,” a flash of irritation crossed his expression. “She’s just a friend of Jack’s. Yes, and a friend of mine.” He looked to her almost for confirmation but she wasn’t sure how to respond to it. “Oh really? Good. That is good, thanks. Of course Mickey isn’t going, why would I invite Mickey? Uh huh. Okay. Yep, bye.” He hung up the call and dropped his mobile back into his pocket. “Jack’s coming, apparently. Representing the Thames Agency.” His chest was definitely puffed out a little in pride as he dropped a prawn in his mouth.

Rose nodded, but it was something else John had said that captured her attention. “Why don’t you like Mickey?”

He paused mid-chew. “It’s a long story.”

“And why does Harry care? I didn’t think they’d even met.”

“Oh yes,” he sniffed, “a long time ago. When I first met Jack. I don’t naturally dislike people; I’m always prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt. But I don’t deal in second chances and Mickey blew his.”

“But what did he _do?_ ” John didn’t reply. It was like trying to squeeze water out of a stone. “I just think you’re nice and he’s nice, I don’t understand why you don’t get along.”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“I have,” she muttered, “and he won’t tell me. I just want to understand.”

John surveyed her and Rose could tell he was considering just coming out and saying it. Donna had told her that it was something minor and John and Mickey were simply acting immature, but she wasn’t sure she believed it. Not when she could see the weight of whatever it was echoed in his deep, expressive eyes. As his face became unreadable and he reached forward to screw up the paper the chips came in, she knew he’d decided against telling her.

“Maybe another time. We better be getting back soon.”

She didn’t like being brushed off, but she didn’t feel like she’d known John long enough to call him out on it—that would probably be rude, and the last thing she wanted to do was be rude to him after his arrangements for next week.

“What is my,” John started the game again as they left the cafe, “favourite animal?”

Rose pondered for a moment. “Great overgrown puppies, such as yourself?”

“Very funny,” he mused, “it’s actually any kind of bird. No specific type. Just anything that can fly and see the world from way up there.” She hummed in agreement. “And yours, Rose Tyler, is...” He stared at her as if trying to discern it from her facial expression. “A wolf?”

She blinked. “You’re actually right.”

“I am?”

“Yeah. Pack animals, but they can also do stuff for themselves.” They’d been a favourite of her father’s and it was just something she’d inherited. “What made you think so?”

“You just seem a bit...” John tilted his head to one side. “I dunno, wolfish.”

The explanation didn’t make a lot of sense, though like much of the things he said she decided it didn’t really need to. They fell back into their companionable rapport on the way back to Gallifrey, and when she felt his hand slip into hers she didn’t even think twice about it.

**o-o-o**

“I know we only just planned it and I’m really sorry, but John’s got me this invite to a party at the Mayor’s on Friday—imagine that, me at the Mayor’s place! I wouldn’t normally cancel on you but there’re gonna be so many great journalists there, Micks. This is the kind of opportunity I’ve been after for so long—John said Henry van Statten might even be there! _Henry van Statten!_ How amazing is that? So I’m just calling to say I am really sorry, and we’ll definitely reschedule, yeah? Two dinners, in fact. We’ll go to Sat-Five and take Jack and we’ll have a right old lark. Thanks Mickey, I knew you’d understand.”

_End of messages. To delete all messages, press—beeeeeep._

Mickey chucked the mobile onto the table with a resounding clutter, trying and failing not to take out his irritation on the old bit of plastic. He wiped a hand across his brow and on realising it came away smeared with engine oil he rubbed it off on his overalls. Oil and dirt had a way of getting over anything and everything in the garage; crawling under fingernails, dipping into orifices and spreading over every surface it touched. It was impossible to stay clean as he worked there throughout the day, although usually he was prepared to spend twenty minutes washing up if he was making plans to meet Rose for lunch. Not that that was much of a problem anymore.

Not since _John Smith_ swanned in.

He and Rose were getting on just fine until that asshat had come back to town—now she was all about doing what he wanted to do and forgetting her old friends, dancing with _him_ at Sat-Five when it should have been Mickey and even (he suspected) taking him to Mott’s Diner, which was (unofficially, he supposed) their place. John Smith was a smooth talker for sure, and Rose was getting sucked right in. And _now_ he was offering her the opportunity to further her career. Dinner at the Mayor’s house? Sure, the Mayor was John’s brother so he had a clear advantage, but how on earth was Mickey supposed to compete with that?

Then when he finally gathered up enough courage to ask her out, she blew him off under an hour later for John Smooth Talker Smith. John was a genius with a PhD; Mickey was just a mechanic with oil stuck under his fingernails. He’d never felt as inadequate as he did the moment after listening to Rose’s voicemail before. If it were anyone else he was convinced he wouldn’t care as much, but the fact that it had to be _John_ luring Rose away right out from under his nose made him very hot under the collar.

Deciding he needed to cool off and see if he could drag Jack out for a much needed drink, Mickey grabbed a rag from the side and began wiping his hands when the sound of someone clearing their throat made him turn around.

To his astonishment, standing underneath the overhanging garage door was Harold Smith, the Mayor of London. He looked distinctly out of place in his prim and pressed suit, smart black gloves to match, and was staring around the place disdainfully as if he didn’t want to spend a second too long standing in such close proximity to the dirt and grime of Kennedy’s Kars.

Mickey hadn’t spoken to Harold Smith since the incident. He stiffened. “Uh, can I help you?”

Harry’s head turned and he started, as if noticing Mickey’s presence there for the first time. The mechanic new better; Harry was simply baiting him.

“Ah, Mickey Smith,” he purred, “I didn’t notice you there.” Mickey thought about how irritatingly similar the brothers were in their attitude to him. And it wasn’t even his sodding fault.

“Don’t bullshit Smith, yeah? Just tell me what you’re after and then I can go back to throwin’ darts at the telly whenever you’re on it.”

The corner of Harry’s mouth tilted upwards in a grin, although his dark brown eyes were almost black with barely restrained malice. “How very quaint. You do give me such a charming insight into the lives of the lowly and contemptible.” Mickey chose not to rise to it and showed no reaction at all, moving to his toolbox and starting to wipe his equipment down before repacking it. In the meantime Harry shoved his hands in his pockets and took the opportunity to survey the garage properly, observing the dirty walls and half constructed cars with a wrinkled nose.

“My brother has a new friend,” he finally drawled, his piercing gaze coming to rest on Mickey, “by the name of Rose Tyler. I don’t suppose you’ve met her?”

Mickey glared at him. “Knowin’ you, you already know I have.”

Harry tilted his head in a conceding gesture. “That is true, I do know. I know she’s been a friend of yours since childhood, and I know about your little crush.” His features formed a sorrowful pout. “Unrequited love. How sad.” Mickey tried not to focus at all on the word _unrequited_. As of yet, he was convinced that was unproven. “And I also happen to know,” Harry’s expression morphed into something a little more mocking, “that she just stood you up. For my baby brother.”

The mechanic froze. “How the hell did you—?”

“I know everything that happens in my city,” Harry continued in a hard tone. “Don’t bother trying to work out how, it’s so very base and dull to ask.” Mickey’s fist clenched around a spanner so hard his knuckles began to turn white. He wasn’t sure who he hated more; John, or his brother. “What I wanted to know was whether you were _alright_ , Mickey. As much as it puzzles me I know how much Rose Tyler means to you. And to abandon you for a newcomer? A man you despise, no less?” Harry tutted and shook one of his gloved fingers in reproach. “Goodness. This must be so harrowing for you.”

“What d’you want, Smith?” Mickey got out through gritted teeth.

“Your assistance.” He took a step forward. “My brother is meant for great things, and Rose Tyler will only hold him back. The Rose Tyler’s of the world belong with the Mickey Smith’s of garages and tiny little hamlets, not men like my dear brother.” His eyes hardened. “She’s not good for him, and he’s not good for her. Follow?”

“What’s this got to do with me?”

“Oh, don’t play the fool, Mickey Smith. It only makes things worse when you really are one.” Harry sighed. “You’re pathetic, you really are. Do you honestly think you can win her over with a coffee from Starbucks and some chips at lunchtime? The occasional dance when she’s done being dazzled by Captain Jack? It’s in your best interests to let me help you. I’m offering you the opportunity to make sure nothing untoward happens between her and my brother,” he pointed two fingers at Mickey, “that should happen between her and you.”

Harold Smith was a dirty weasel, although Mickey had long since accepted the fact that he’d be the only one to ever realise. Jack had always been besotted with the man and his generosity, as was John, and Mickey often felt like the only individual alive who’d been disillusioned to his true nature. Still, if Harry was anything, he was capable. Mickey had never known him to set his mind on something and not achieve it. Did that make it right? He cared about Rose; enough to know that she should steer well clear of John Smith and his asshatery, even if she didn’t end up with him as a result. Her being with him didn’t necessarily matter—her staying away from John was more urgent for her welfare. He’d put money on the fact that John had told her nothing about his little _problem_.

“Why’re you doing this?”

“Consider it an act of charity. I am, after all, the Mayor—philanthropy is in my nature.” Mickey snorted in disbelief. “You can sit on that high horse as long as you like, Mickey Smith, but grinding that saddle won’t win you the girl of your dreams.”

Mickey had never been good at hiding his emotions, and he was sure Harry could see how tempted he was in his expression. He liked to think of himself as being reasonably honest of character, and if the Mayor had caught him at any time of day other than a few minutes after listening to Rose shrug him off for something bigger and better that John Smith was offering, he probably would have refused. As it stood, he was already despairing at how to compete and not lose his girl to a bastard who’d barely known her two weeks and happened to possess a magnetic charm that seemed to attract everyone in sight.

Perhaps Harry Smith’s offer was the only way Mickey stood a chance. Was that so bad?

“So you just wanna… you just wanna split them up, right?”

Harry nodded. “Right.”

“Nothin’ else in the small print I should know about? It’s just makin’ sure they don’t… y’know.”

“Do a little dance?” Harry seemed to take pleasure in Mickey looking away furiously. “Make a little love, get down tonight?”

“Yeah, that,” the mechanic growled.

“That’s all it is. You have my word.” Harry placed a sincere hand over his heart. “You follow my instructions and she’ll be as available as a prostitute in Soho. Oops,” he pressed that same hand over his mouth in faux surprise. “Not that any of that goes on in _my_ city. But I sense you catch my drift.”

Mickey shifted uncomfortably. He’d probably regret this later, but for now he knew what he wanted and what was best for the people he cared about.

“I’ll do it.”

Harry’s entire expression lit up delightedly. “ _Excellent._ Perhaps you’re not a total loss, Mickey Smith.” With that he turned on his heel and made to stride out of the garage, only pausing once he was outside the door to throw a cold smile back over his shoulder. “I’ll be in touch.”

As the Mayor’s footsteps receded Mickey was overcome with a chilling sensation that told him he’d just made a very poor decision.


	7. you're no one 'til someone lets you down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who used to follow this story on tumblr/Teaspoon and happens to see this, it isn't a new chapter - sorry! I just realised I never quite caught up with posting A Reason to Swim on AO3, and as I am definitely looking to continue with this fic (all the way to the bitter end!) I'm hoping this may help move myself along. Rest assured, a new chapter is in the works as we speak! 
> 
> To any new readers - a lot more was supposed to happen on the end of this chapter, but it got kinda long so I had to cut it and you'll be getting Harry Smith's birthday bonanza next chapter. For now you have John, Jack, Rose and of course, Angela Price. Enjoy!

Four weeks before she died, Angela Price contacted Rose Tyler under the pseudonym Mrs. Moore with a deadly confession. 

She was working for a secret organisation that specialized in abducting men and women from the streets and subjecting them to illegal medical tests for what her superiors called “the final experiment”. It was all in the name of developing what was referred to as the “wondercure”, a drug based treatment for cancers and terminal illnesses unlike anything the world had seen before. The science was lost on her, she was simply a cleaner, but she knew that the experiments produced varying degrees of success, and they’d keep going until they got it right. 

The Skaro Project, or company, officially didn’t exist. No records of it could be found across the internet or in any archives, and the inquiries Rose told Angela she’d made through non-traditional routes had also apparently drawn blanks. Supposedly even the Mayor didn’t know anything about it. Angela didn’t believe that; she thought he was in on it. It was such a huge corporation kept under such a tight wrap that someone higher up had to be pulling the strings. 

Not existing officially, the entirety of Skaro’s work happened underground. It was never advertised through any means besides words of mouth, and the only people roped into involvement with the project were usually those with nowhere else to turn. It was an entirely volunteer based program left exclusively for the bottom half of society, the ones so close to falling off the lowermost rung of the ladder that they couldn’t afford to look after themselves. Stories about the “wondercure” defeating cancer, HIV and diabetes circulated the backstreets of London and gave the project innumerable test subjects from the helpless who wandered in searching for aid. As far as she knew, no one walked out of Skaro cured. 

The story went that, because of the secrecy of the testing (it was in its initial stages, the subjects were told), cured individuals were relocated and given a chance to start life afresh. Unofficially Angela had no idea what happened to them–all she knew was that no one was given a new life. As for the participants who weren’t cured? Never spoken about. Conveniently, because of their social standing, their disappearances were rarely investigated. Nobody missed a prostitute who vanished from the street or a tramp who no longer begged where he used to.

Skaro’s operations were clean and quick while the testing continued, and so small scale that it was almost impossible to discover it unless you were already aware of its existence, and even harder to infiltrate. Most of the scientists who were recruited for the project understood the need for discretion and were certain that they were working for the good of the planet–they were finally finding the cure to some of the most debilitating diseases to strike down the human race. What were a few lost lives in the name of the drug that might save billions? That was what they were brainwashed into believing. 

Angela was a cleaner who’d seen too much. She watched a woman die on the table after being injected with the wondercure when she should have been washing beakers. Suddenly afraid of what she’d become involved with (she’d only gotten the job through her brother-in-law, who worked diligently as a lab assistant) she’d contacted Rose Tyler, a journalist she’d picked out of the Gallifrey Chronicle and asked for help. She wanted to pick someone small, but someone honest–someone who wouldn’t dismiss her findings as crazy. Luckily she’d chosen correctly, even if Rose hadn’t quite known how to respond to Angela's plea. 

They’d steadily been working together for a few weeks uncovering small details about the company–the director’s name was Davros, and he also officially didn’t exist. When she could Angela snuck out documents she found lying around while she was cleaning and dropped them at points across the city for Rose to collect. She was always careful about what she said, she wasn’t an idiot, and she made sure her all her interactions with Rose Tyler were entirely anonymous. Skaro kept a strict watch on all their employees, even the cleaners. Secrecy was imperative. 

She knew she was endangering her life just by contacting Rose at all but she couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. Even as deep investigations began into all of Skaro’s employees to see who was slipping word to the outside she refused to let herself be afraid. She was helping people. She might not be there to see the end result, but Skaro was going to be stopped–Rose would see to it, she knew it. She just knew it. 

Angela Price thought about that while she died. 

o-o-o

“Grub’s up,” Jack beamed as he set down three plates of bangers and mash. “I haven’t been to Mott’s in ages, thanks for bringing me out.” 

John began tucking into his. “We come here all the time–I’d have invited you earlier but you’re always so busy these days. Do you even give yourself a lunch break at the Agency anymore?”

“I usually get pizza or takeout delivered, it means I don’t have to go too far from the desk.” As Wilfred tottered over to them and set down some HP and tomato sauce he gave Jack a wry look.

“Boss of the Time Agency’s too big to come to little ol’ Mott’s anymore,” he lamented, his tone an exaggeration. Rose immediately noticed the behaviour parallel with his grandson; both were prone to a unnecessary dramatics.

“That’s not true,” Jack reassured him as he straightened, “I’m just busy. You know I adore you, Wilf.”

Wilfred sniffed. “Yeah, well.” Then he shuffled back to the counter and Jack laughed a little into his drink. He’d known Wilfred Mott for a long time now and could tell when the older man was pulling his leg. 

“So,” he started around a mouthful of potato, looking between his best friend and his little sister innocently picking away at their lunch from the other side of the table. “You two come here together... often?” 

It was a loaded question, full of a subtle but certain amount of suspicion and John and Rose picked up on it immediately. They both paused mid-chew and shared a hesitant look while Jack continued to eat nonchalantly. Maybe Rose only detected a hint of brotherly protectiveness, but John could hear the warning intonation loud and clear.

“Er, well I guess so?” John half shrugged.

Rose cleared her throat. She figured there was no sense in lying–it wasn’t like they’d done anything wrong. “We’ve been a few times, yeah. You know this is where I usually come with Micks and it just so happens if I come with John sometimes I get free stuff.” She turned the admission into a joke, giving John a side-along grin. 

He returned it. “And she’s pretty much the only person at Gallifrey who talks to me without starting her sentences with ‘shut up’, ‘oh God you again’ or ‘have you actually written anything today?’” 

Rose pointed a finger between the pair of them. “Mutually beneficial.” 

“This is purely a working relationship,” John added. 

Jack stared dubiously at the back and forth.

“Bin man,” Rose muttered for good measure. 

“Cockroach quoter.” 

She scowled and resisted the urge to flick some potato in his direction. “Oh, shut up.” 

“You should’ve seen it today, Jack,” John turned to his friend while barely suppressing a grin. “Yvonne gave Rose this _marvellous_ assignment.”

“Don’t tell the story.”

John ignored her. “Tomorrow she’s supposed to go and interview somebody about the damp problem in their flat–apparently they have cockroaches. Dozens of them.” Jack smirked. “It’s going to get its own feature on–what was it?–page twenty-three? In fact, it’s so interesting a story that Yvonne couldn’t think of a single person in her department who’d ‘enjoy reporting on it’ more than Rose.” Here he finally gave a snort of laughter which was frostily received by her.

Rose sighed heavily. “S’what I’m here for. To write about damp and be shat on by my boss.”

“Have they assigned a police escort?” Jack chimed in. “Things could get edgy.”

“You two are so annoying,” she huffed, shovelling the last bit of sausage into her mouth and swallowing. “I’m going for a Starbucks, so you can meet me outside in fifteen minutes when you’re finished.” Even through their hasty apologies (the authenticity of which was somewhat undermined by their snickering) she ignored them and shrugged on her coat. “Here’s a fiver for the bill.” She dropped the note, stuck out her tongue and waved at Wilf as she departed the diner. 

Jack watched her go with an affectionate smile. He knew how much she despised the work she was given at Gallifrey, but even more so he knew in his heart of hearts that it wouldn’t be permanent–there was only so much Rose Tyler would take lying down. If Yvonne didn’t let up soon she’d find herself with one less journalist willing to take her crap. He then looked back to John, prodding at the leftover potato on his plate and still smiling to himself. Jack couldn’t tell if he loved it or found it unnerving that John and Rose were out making memories without him. Part of him adored it, they were two of his best friends and seeing them get along was heart-warming. He just wasn’t sure he wanted them to get _too_ close. Not with John being the way he was.

It made him guilty even just _thinking_ that. How was that fair to either of them? He just wanted what was best for Rose; he couldn’t bear her being unhappy. Not like River was. 

Drawn from his thoughts by Wilfred coming over with the bill, Jack then put down another five pounds to join Rose’s before looking expectantly at John. His friend reached into his pocket before frowning, and proceeding to pat himself down. He offered Jack a sheepish look he knew well–the one that told him he’d also be paying for John’s third of the bill. He made sure he got the exact change and a generous tip out for the older man, and didn’t notice John had retreated into his thoughts and was staring pensively out the window while he was doing so. 

“Jack, are you...” He hesitated, not looking at him. “Are you angry at me?”

“Hm?” Jack nodded distractedly as he ordered two coffees for him and John to go. “Oh, not really. I mean I was kinda hoping we could go half each and not let Rose pay at all.”

“No, not about that,” John gave him the ghost of a smile. “I mean–about me leaving.” 

Jack raised an eyebrow. “What, two years ago leaving?”

“Twenty–oh, never mind. Yeah,” John swallowed, “that.”

He was careful with how he replied as Wilf handed him the two steaming cups. “Well I was, you know that.” He gave John one of them and he accepted with a grateful half smile. “You did just up and leave without any kind of goodbye.” His friend looked away guiltily, and he could see the misery edge into his expression that told him he was beating himself up about it. “Hey, look,” he continued gently, “we already had this conversation when you called me from Croatia, remember? Do we have to bring it all up again now?”

John sniffed as he emerged from the Diner, Jack close behind. “I suppose not.” 

Trying to make a joke out of it and cheer him up, Jack nudged him with his shoulder as they walked. “I hope that phone call bankrupted you.”

“Of course it did. Do you have any idea how high international rates are on Archangel?” The pair let out a breath of laughter between them, though John still squirmed as he scratched his ear. “But you’re not... _still_ angry, are you?”

At this Jack took hold of John’s elbow and forced him stop walking, staring at him intently. “What’s this about, what’s happened?”

John shoved his hands in his pockets. “I, erm, I went to see Martha.” 

“Oh,” Jack’s features lit with understanding and a little sympathy. “And she ripped you to shreds, am I right?”

“She did hang me out to dry and beat me with a pole a bit, yeah.” He frowned. “I had no idea she was so angry.”

“That woman can hold a grudge,” Jack remarked. “Hell hath no fury like a therapist scorned.” At John’s worried look he placed a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. “She’ll get over it, John. It was upsetting for all of us but it’s in the past. You’re back now and that’s what matters to me–and I’m sure deep down that’s what matters to her.”

His friend nodded and they walked in silence for a minute or so, Jack sensing that he needed a change of subject. One came in the convenient form of Jack patting his inside pocket and realising he must've left his wallet back on the counter, so he nudged John back in the direction of the Diner. There were also a few issues of his own he wanted to touch on with John before they met back up with Rose–he appreciated the fact that it was probably the wrong time to bring them up given his best friend's mood, but he thought he might not get another opportunity.

“So,” he started on the way back, and he tried to keep his tone light, “Rose tells me you’re taking her to Harry’s tomorrow night. What’s that about?”

“It’s just a friendly invitation,” John was quick to assure him.

“You don’t think it kinda... sends the wrong message?”

John blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you haven’t explicitly told her no, have you?” The stare in Jack’s eyes was rapidly beginning to feel like a veiled threat. “You might get her hopes up for something happening.” The unspoken end of the sentence John could hear was _Even After Our Talk_. Jack was clearly following through, trying to make sure John was true to his word–frankly he was a little offended at the assumption that he was planning on ignoring the promise he’d made to Jack that night at Sat-Five. 

“Oh, please,” he waved a hand, “as if she’s even interested in me.” As he spoke he looked over his shoulder and she materialized at the end of the road cradling a Starbucks and waving them over. Jack gestured back to the bar insinuating he’d forgotten something and she rolled her eyes, which was probably for the best considering it wasn’t a conversation they’d want her to be privy to. “And besides, it’s none of your business.” John attempted to sound a little haughty to get Jack to stop prying. 

“It’s my business because I’m a little concerned about all the signals you’re sending.”

John was appalled. “I’m not sending any _signals!_ ”

“Maybe you’re not,” Jack muttered. 

At that moment Rose called over to them and they turned. “Hurry up, will you? I want to get back to Gallifrey soon, it’s freezing out here!”

The American leaned in close to his friend’s ear and let his voice float higher a few octaves. “Translation: ‘Oh, John, please come over soon so I can bat my eyelashes at you and you can wrap your long coat around me although I’ll leave it open just enough so you can still see a good amount of cleavage’.” 

John recoiled. “You’re _completely_ objectifying her!” He glared, grabbing Jack’s arm and dragging him back inside the Diner roughly “Rose Tyler is a funny, charming, independent woman, who has a lot more interesting things to think about than... than...” 

“You?” Jack offered. 

“Quite, yes,” John finished irritably. “Much more interesting things.”

“Look,” Jack tried to backpedal a little, appreciating that his strategy of diving in guns blazing hadn’t impressed his friend. “I just want to make sure she knows that you’re just going to stay friends.”

John seemed to consider this for a long moment, staring at Jack as if he were thinking hard about his response. Jack could almost see the cogs turning behind his eyes, though he was completely thrown off by what he said next. 

“Why did you never mention her?”

“Say what?”

“Why did you never mention Rose Tyler to me before?” he repeated.

Jack swallowed as he floundered for a response. “Well, I–I must have, you probably don’t remember.”

“No, no,” John’s voice had dipped to the low growl he used when thinking his way through a difficult puzzle. “Because I _would_ remember this. You and her are thick as thieves, like real siblings–you grew up together but you never mentioned her, not even once.” Here his stare turned hard. “I lived with you for over three years, Jack. Why did you never bring her up?”

He felt completely cornered, and the look in John’s eye told him he already knew he had Jack pinned down. Buying himself time to reply, he walked up to the counter and found his wallet sitting exactly where he’d left it–Wilf shot him a knowing look from the till. Jack’s thoughts were whirring; John had accurately called him out on something he’d been able to hide for years and guilt reared its ugly head within him. John was his best friend; he hated lying to him. So he bit the bullet and opted for the truth. 

“Donna,” he got out quietly, “Donna–“

“Of course, Donna,” John hissed. 

“She warned me, okay? When I was first getting to know you she warned me about you. I avoided mentioning Rose and then by the time I knew you it was just–it was just habit.” John looked about ready to throw something. Jack gave him a pained look. “I’m sorry, okay? Truly, I am.”

“Did you know it was Donna who sent me to Martha in the first place?” he fumed. “Who made me move back to London after university so she could keep an eye on me? What I want to know is how on earth I’m supposed to get over this–this _problem_ everyone thinks I have when you all spend so much time whispering and conspiring about it behind my back.” 

He was more than angry, he was _furious_ , and Jack shrank back from the storm in his expression. Honestly he had no idea John felt that way about it. “I... I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well,” he shot him an irritated look. “And you know what? I’m taking Rose to Harry’s birthday because there’s an opportunity for her there and she deserves more than Gallifrey and writing articles about cockroaches and damp because she’s brilliant and it’s about time someone noticed it, alright?”

“Alright, alright.” Jack held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I get it. Forget I said anything.” The pair stood for a moment glaring at the other before Jack straightened with a curt nod, turned on his heel and headed for the exit to go and see Rose. Once he was gone, John turned back to the bar and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Fighting with Jack was his least favourite thing to do, but the point had to be made. 

“You sure showed him,” Wilf grumbled as he shuffled over. John gave him a sad look, the kind that leant itself to comfort. In response his grandfather squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “I never thought you ‘ad a problem, John. My old Dad couldn’t settle neither.” John allowed the smallest smile to pull at the corner of his mouth. “He was a sailor, and he’d never be happy unless he 'ad the wind be’ind him. He was a great man, my Dad,” he gave his grandson an affectionate look, “and you’re just like him.” 

John smiled softly, drawing idle circles in the counter. “Thanks Daddad.”

“Although I don’t think you ‘ave syphilis.”

John’s head shot up.

“Mind you,” Wilf stared him up and down, “you ‘ave been abroad.” 

His grandson grimaced. 

“Yuck. That is... that is... thanks, Daddad.”

o-o-o

 

The following night was known to Rose as quite possibly the last night she had to put up with Yvonne Hartman's condescension and tyranny as she piled on work for unrealistic deadlines. It could be the last night she had to think about Gallifrey at all; in fact, if things went very, very well, it could be the last night she'd have to feel like her crummy job was holding her back and squashing her potential for doing so much more. Perhaps she was being optimistic or was getting a little ahead of herself, but in the last few weeks she'd learned a valuable lesson of that nature–sometimes it _was_ better to wonder and imagine and hope instead of just sitting and waiting for things to change all on their own without conscious effort. 

She was invigorated, like a fire had been lit underneath her. She'd forgotten how much she revelled in proving herself, having been lulled into a docile routine by Gallifrey over the past eighteen months, but now she remembered all those high hopes she had for herself when she first moved to London. It was time to get back on track.

That in mind, Rose smoothed down her dress as she pressed the buzzer for John’s apartment. Apparently he had work to finish and had apologised profusely but told her it would be much more convenient for him if she’d walk to his flat first and then let him drive them both to Harold Smith’s birthday party. Given the opportunity John was offering to her that night Rose was only too happy to do everything she could to increase said convenience. 

“Give me two secs, I’ll buzz you up,” came John’s voice from the crackling speaker. After a moment he front door clicked open and Rose stepped inside the building. 

The stairs were a bit of a challenge in her heels, and she groused that there wasn't a lift she could use instead. In truth it had been a little difficult to choose an outfit seeing as she wasn't sure just how formal the occasion was–John had mentioned it was black tie but shown little interest in elaborating so she'd fretted alone, called Jack twice, and finally settled on a sleek, modest black cocktail dress. It was flattering in all the right places as she had people to impress tonight, but definitely one of the more conservative outfits she owned considering she didn't want the partygoers zeroing in on any part of her besides her intelligence and her ambition. 

Most of them, anyway.

The door to John’s flat opened and she was met with his signature boyish grin on the other side, which wavered slightly as he took in her appearance. As his eyes drank in the sight Rose took the opportunity to assess her date for the evening. John looked smart in his tuxedo and bow tie, and by the looks of things he'd even spent more time on his hair than usual–she bit back a snigger as she thought about how to tease him about the amount of product applied.

“Is it alright?” Rose dipped her head a little to catch his eye, and his gaze shot back up to her face a little guiltily. He'd clearly been enjoying the view and she enjoyed the sensation but brushed it aside. “I mean, I wasn’t sure how smart I should go. I dunno what sort of parties your brother likes to throw.”

“You look beautiful,” John assured her sincerely, his eyes locking onto hers. Then all too suddenly he was stepping back to give her room to walk in and looking away again. “You know, considering.”

Rose didn’t move and cocked a hand on her hip. “Considering what?”

The follow up question seemed to surprise him, and his Adam's apple bobbed visibly as he searched for an acceptable response. “Considering... that... you’re human.” Rose’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, I mean, of course in anyone’s eyes beauty is entirely relative, but what I mean is if we were to look at it purely from an archetypal perspective the general widely accepted representation of true beauty is something akin to a goddess–it’d be unfair to measure you on the same scale considering that you’re human.” The more John spoke the faster the words slipped out and the redder he flushed as he awkwardly gesticulated with one hand and completely avoided her gaze. Rose tried not to let her amusement show. “Not that I’m saying a goddess would completely outmatch you,” he rushed to add, “but non-subjectively you might not compare... as well as you should.”

He looked about ready to shut the door again and duck into a corner as he stared at a spot over the top of her head. Rose laughed.

“You could’a just said I looked nice and left it there.”

“Yeah.” He cracked a small smile. “Sorry. Erm, that got away from me a bit.” Finally she stepped inside. “You do look lovely.”

“You don’t clean up to bad yourself,” she replied, nodding at the tux as he shut the door behind them. 

Still trying to assemble his thoughts after his ramble, John gestured aimlessly to the walls. “So, this is my cave.”

As he spoke Jake emerged from one of the rooms and stepped down the hall towards his bedroom. “Hey Jake,” she greeted warmly as he passed. 

“Hey Rose, Doctor,” he smiled, “have a good time this evening.”

“We will, thanks.” Then he stepped into his room and shut the door with a click. Rose leaned in close to John. “Betcha didn’t know he’s gay.” 

John turned to her with a dumbfounded expression. “He's not, is he?” 

“Like Liberace with a yellow handkerchief." She bumped his shoulder with her own. "I’m surprised he hasn’t brought a load of boys home already, he’s quite the player.” 

“Probably spends too much time with Jack. Amazing!" John beamed as they reached the kitchen. "I’ll just stick the kettle on–sorry for not picking you up properly first, I just have this article I really need to finish and every second counts.”

“Working to the deadline?”

“Well, after the party I was actually planning on burning the midnight oil, so yeah. I think Amy's finally lost her patience with me not handing anything in.” Once the kettle was just beginning to hum he gestured for her to follow him across the hall. “I just can’t get work done unless I have that absolute _need_ to do it without question. Bit of a procrastinator, that's me.” 

Rose followed John into his room, curiosity piqued at what his private space might look like. He immediately took a seat at the desk on the far side of the room under the windowsill, leaving Rose to her own methods of exploration as he got on with some of his work. The room was a mess, a stark contrast to the rest of Jake's immaculate flat, but it was a comforting sort of chaos like John just tended to put things down and then forget about them. The floor was littered with strange bits of clutter, from pan flutes to odd miniature pieces of machinery. She imagined it was how the inside of his mind might look. One of the walls was covered in a huge map of the world, with a tacked up red ribbon strewn across most of America and some orange pins dotted at frequent intervals over the rest of the map. 

Surrounding the map were numerous polaroids, mainly images of John grinning with other people, sometimes wearing sunglasses and sometimes not, and Rose couldn't help but wonder how extensive his acquaintance network must be. She surmised they were probably taken while he was travelling because of the wide range of activities shown there–John with climbing equipment, John with scuba gear, John sitting atop an elephant–all sorts. What drew her attention was a note in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, written in what she recognised as John's untidy scrawl. It read ' _Here Be Monsters_ ' and was accompanied by a doodle of a long snake like creature with the head of a dragon diving in and out of the water. Now that she noticed it, she recognised a few pictures on his walls which she could only describe as resembling some sort of sea monster, along with various breeds of shark and even whales on display. There was definitely some sort of marine animal theme to be found to John Smith's room. The window in front of the desk he kept his computer on was almost completely bordered by a collage of sharks in their natural habitat.

"You're dying to ask, aren't you?" John's voice startled her and she looked down to notice he'd swivelled round in his chair and was watching her with a knowing look. He grinned. "Go on, ask."

Rose held back a smile by pushing her tongue into the hollow of her cheek. "Alright then. What's with all the..." she trailed off waving a hand at the assorted photos, "sharks and stuff?"

John's eyes sparkled, as if he were imparting a great secret. "Everybody needs a reason to swim."

She gave the phrase a fair amount of silence before responding dryly, "Poetic."

"Isn't it? I should become a writer or something." He seemed to be enjoying her sceptical reaction, and she made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat.

"Mm. And how long have you been sitting on that?"

John folded one leg over the other and rubbed his ear with a thoughtful expression. "I actually heard it for the first time while I was studying in France. For my first year at university this kind old man offered me a place to lodge, and one of the first things he asked me was what my reason to swim was." He half smiled, like he was remembering something fondly. "I keep the 'sharks and stuff' around to remind me; every action has a purpose. Every person has a reason for swimming."

"And what did you say?"

His gaze snapped back to her. "Hm?"

"What was your reason for... swimming?"

John simply smiled, and tapped his nose as he stood from his chair. "Tea must be ready by now. How do you take it?" She was beginning to learn John was an expert at side-stepping topics he didn't want to indulge in.

"Milk two sugars, thanks." She brushed a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear as he left, choosing to examine some of the other parts of the room. As she wandered over to his bed she found she had to duck under what looked like a washing line strung from the top of his window to the far wall, but instead of her seeing clothes pegged to it she was confronted with more photos; these ones, however, focused far more on landscapes and monuments with a lot of emphasis on the position of the sun. Rose spared them a small smile; John certainly had an eye for pretty things. 

On his bedside table amongst all the clutter, Rose's stare dropped onto an open book; a diary of some kind. It was left open to a page someplace near the middle and was decorated with scribbled notes and doodles. Now Rose had kept a diary while she was in secondary school, and ordinarily she wouldn't dare invade somebody's privacy in such a way, but her curiosity was piqued by a drawing on the open page. It was what looked like some kind of machine resembling a salt or pepper pot, but with various utensils pointing out the front. A plunger; a whisk perhaps?

Before she could examine it further it was plucked from her hands by John, whom she hadn't noticed returning. He snapped the book shut and Rose spotted the writing on the front: ' _A Journal of Impossible Things_ '.

"Don't mind that," John spared it a glance before hastily tossing it back onto the bed. "It's just my brain notepad, where all my random thoughts are regurgitated. You know that feeling you have when you think of something and you simply _have_ to write it down?"

"D'ya get thoughts like that often?"

"I'll have you know my thoughts are very noteworthy. Best to keep the book around."

"So what was that thing?" Rose asked as she took the mug of tea he was offering to her.

He waved a hand. "Just something I made up." 

"Tell me!" she persisted. 

John flashed her a grin but shook his head. "Maybe some other time. Drink your tea–I'm just going to finish this last paragraph and then we can go." He sat back down at his computer and began to type away again and Rose rolled her eyes.

She wandered back over to the map and began using her free hand to trace along the red ribbon. She didn't want to disturb him while he was working, but she thought this may well be the only opportunity she'd get to see an insight like this into his mind. 

"So was this your route?" She followed the ribbon down as it zigzagged over Mexico before dropping further towards South America. 

John looked up and swivelled back around, following her arm up until where her hand was currently dipping through Costa Rica. He took a large gulp of his tea. "No. Actually it's a plan for my next one."

Rose turned to watch him over her shoulder, eyebrows furrowed. "Are you going?"

"Well," he shrugged, "I'm not staying." She didn't answer, simply clicking her tongue and turning her attention back to the map. John hesitated, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he studied her reaction. After a few moments he spoke again. "Is that a problem?" 

Rose spared him the ghost of a smile. "It's none of my business." 

It was true; it wasn't really. She had no right to ask him to stay in London, which was a bizarre suggestion anyway–they'd only known each other for such a short amount of time, and if the decoration around his room was anything to go by travelling was clearly a fundamental part of his life. Compared to that the meagre near-on three weeks that they'd known each other was miniscule, invitation to a posh party at the Mayor's house or no. It was just the thought of him leaving when they were just getting to know each other that bothered her. It was so easy to be confident with John, like he was the friend she never knew she'd been missing. Of course there was little to no guarantee that the feeling was mutual.

She thought she'd managed to hide how much the prospect bothered her (it was _stupid_ to be bothered by that) but John was watching her with a very curious expression. She stared back almost in challenge, determined not to waver under his scrutiny. Then he was breaking the moment by jumping up from his seat and bounding towards her. 

"Yes, well. The whole of America is the one place I've never been–not the USA or Canada, or even South America." At her questioning gaze he rubbed the back of his neck. "I sort of... Well, I'd always planned to go with Donna. We've had that whole road trip planned for years." He gestured vaguely to the track of the ribbon across the continent. "It'd be just us and the Tardis for miles and miles. I guess part of me is holding out for her to come with me still, which is why I've put it off for so long."

John's right arm reached up to join hers, fingertips brushing for the briefest of moments. "The ribbon's where I go next–the orange pins are countries I've already been. As you can see there's not much left untacked." He grinned. "The roads untraveled."

Rose pulled her gaze from the wall to offer him a soft smile. It didn't seem like such a bad life. "Why wouldn't Donna want to go with you?" 

He sniffed and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "She has a family, a home. The one road I might always leave untraveled." 

Rose turned to look back at the map, at the photos of John beaming from various tropical locations. "Have you asked her?"

"I'm afraid to. If she says no I won't ask again. I never ask twice."

"Well that seems dumb," she snorted. "What if she said no the first time but actually still really wanted to go?" 

To his credit John considered this, but shook his head. "It's not like that. We've had this whole trip planned for near on ten years now, but things always seem to get in the way. First it was my education, then her job, then my job, then she became pregnant with her first daughter–Sally, I don't know if you've met her?" Rose nodded. "If I finally asked and she said no that'd be it. And I hate endings."

"But you're fine just leaving it in limbo forever?" She couldn't quite make sense of this in her head. "What if she's been planning to say yes this whole time? You'd never ask and never know." 

The man in front of her let his eyes drop, taking the empty tea mug from her in silence. His expression was far more sombre than she'd seen it before and she couldn't help but be completely captured by the sight; she so rarely saw what was really going through his mind, the chinks in his perfectly chiselled armour. When John Smith smiled it was like he knew a secret the rest of the world didn't; when he frowned it was like he knew _every_ secret, and carried them like a precious burden. She felt compelled to take it from him, to lighten the load and move the subject along to something happier that might brighten things for him again. She hated to see him brood.

"I've always wanted to go travelling myself," she continued after a few moments, "it looks like a fantastic experience. Half the reason I got into journalism was 'cause I thought it'd get me there."

John watched her carefully. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He raised an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth perked upwards. "Maybe I should take you instead then." Before Rose had time to process the statement his grin was back and he was shutting the lid of his laptop and straightening out his bowtie in a flurry activity. "Right then, Miss Tyler," he held out an arm for her to take, "would you please accompany to Harold Smith's birthday bonanza? Oh, that's a good word." He tested it on his tongue. "Bonanza. Sounds like banana. Then imagine if you had a banana bonanza and you were invited by a bloke called Balthazar. It'd be Balthazar's banana bonanza."

"In Belize?" Rose offered, and John beamed.

"Oh, I like you very much." 

After a final goodbye to Jake, John led her back down the stairs slowly, her less than suitable footwear in mind, but instead of taking her out the front entrance when they reached the foyer they entered a side door that opened into some kind of garage. Cars presumably belonging to the residents of the building were parked in bays on the one floor, and with a delighted grin John led her in the direction of his. 

"There's someone I'd like you to meet," he informed her, offering his arm and taking her to the far corner. When he proudly revealed her with a flourish Rose was met with the sight of a classic car of a dark, midnight blue. The paint was peeling off in certain places and it hardly looked as dapper as it might have once, but as Rose rested a hand on the bonnet she knew she already loved it. 

"I call her the Tardis," John said proudly, "that's T.A.R.D.I.S. You might recognise her, she's an Aston Martin–"

"Aston Martin DB5, released in 1963 and the Bond car archetype. I do believe _you_ , John Smith, are a fanboy."

"Pot," John pointed at her, then at himself. "Kettle. You sound like a fan yourself!" 

"Well, I'm not just a pretty face. Which kid didn't want to be James Bond when they were knee high?"

"Pretty sure Harry always had designs on world domination. He was more of a Dr. No fan, and all that." It didn't take any convincing for Rose to believe that. "You're not wrong, though–about me being a fanboy. It was either this or Michael Keaton's Batmobile, and this one seemed more convenient to park."

"She's gorgeous," Rose assured him, running a hand along the bonnet for emphasis. 

"She needs some fixing up, of course. But she certainly will be." He walked around to her side and held open the door. "So. Shall we?"

Rose nodded her thanks as she stepped into the car as gracefully as she could manage–it was a little lower down than she was expecting. If John noticed her awkward clambering in he didn't comment as he pranced around to his door and dropped inside. 

"Right then. Time to get going." He turned the key in the ignition and was met with the engine coughing once, twice, before ultimately fading out of existence. Rose gave him an amused look. "Come on old girl," he urged, "we have a guest." He looked less than pleased at Rose's smirk as he leaned over to open the glove compartment. 

To her alarm he pulled out a wooden mallet and as he turned the key again smacked it down onto the dashboard. He was rewarded with the engine spluttering to life. 

"Sometimes she, ah, needs a little unconventional driving techniques, nothing to worry about. She's old, I'm afraid–second hand when I bought her. I got her with a couple of grand knocked off because she was in pretty rough shape. Her old owner had abandoned her at the repair shop–imagine that! They had a classic, true blood Aston Martin DB5 and they dumped her after she needed repairs. That's like," he tutted in annoyance as they moved off, "like starting to eat a trifle and stopping after the custard. Grossly inhumane. Although she did end up in my possession as a result so I suppose I should be grateful." He tapped the dashboard affectionately. 

"So why d'ya call her the Tardis then?" 

John shrugged. "I dunno. Well, I mean, I _know_ , I named her after this–this thing. That I dreamt about once. Although you know Jack calls her Idris, which he felt was a prettier name to suit a prettier vehicle. He actually helped me get her into working condition in the first place."

Rose wasn't letting him avoid the subject that easily. "What did you dream about?"

"It's not important."

Her tongue drifted out to touch the corner of her mouth. "Would I find it in your _Journal of Impossible Things?_ "

John opened his mouth and then shut it again. "Hm, well–yes. Yeah, I suppose you would." 

"So are you going to tell me?" 

"Nope." He pronounced the 'p' with an air of finality.

"Bet you five quid I can make you tell me."

He clicked his tongue. "I'm trying to focus on the road, Rose. Not make silly wagers."

"Ten quid?"

The corner of his mouth quirked upward. "Done." She smirked and turned to look out the window. "Excited?" he continued. 

"Nervous," she replied, "but thanks for tonight. Y'know, in case I embarrass myself colossally and don't feel like thanking you later."

"You'll be fine," he was quick to reassure her. "And if you start to struggle just go find Harry, I'm sure he'll look after you."

Rose suppressed a shiver at the thought of the birthday boy and his sinister smiles coming to her aid. Certainly not if she had anything to say about it.


	8. it's easy to do what you must in the dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, to old readers, not a new chapter yet! but I am making v strong headway. ideally when this fic is all up to date on here the new chap should be done!  
> to any new readers, I hope you all enjoy! <3

**_27th August, 4 months before the wedding._ **

Dusk was hot, almost sticky, as the remaining vestiges of summer tried to cling to the longer nights and the musky air. Heavy was the scent of freshly cut grass and the warmth of the evening wrapped around ever limb like a muggy, heady blanket. As rays of sun from the west hit the back of the large manor the reflections in the windows seemed to dance a burnt gold while the lightest of breezes brushed the grass on the lawn. Rose took no notice; she wasn't there to admire the scenery.

Her hand was clasped tightly in John's as he pulled her by the northern edge of the back garden, taking care to make sure they dipped in and out of shadows produced by juts in the poorly cut hedge. She remembered a time when she and John had used this entrance to escape the manor and the intoxicating sounds of a party within; now they were using it to sneak back in as the building stood tall and proud in the growing dark. He paused as they reached the familiar outcrop and her heart began to hammer in her chest—she almost thought John had sensed it when he tensed, paused, and used their interlocked hands to tug her back towards him. 

His expression was a dark cloud of unease, and Rose's confidence waned. She needed him to support her in this—she wasn't sure she could continue without it. 

She stared at him, hard. "Are you sure about this?"

Everything in his eyes screamed that he wasn't and he let out a deep breath and looked away, staring through the hole in the hedgerow at the waiting manor. 

Finally he nodded. "It's the only way we'll know for sure." Rose tried not to look too relieved. "I just wish we didn't have to split up."

"I need you to take care of any staff he might've left behind—and this is my fight, not yours." She spoke with a lot more confidence than she felt. "We haven't got a lot of time."

"But if we're right—if it really _is_ him..." John trailed off. "I can't protect you if he finds you." She looked back up to find him giving her a pained look. 

"He's out."

"We don't know that."

She shook her head. "We have to try. Besides, aren't you the one that needs protecting?" 

She was rewarded with only the barest hint at a smile. "Text me in fifteen minutes—just to let me know you're okay." Rose could see how much the decision he was letting her make was hurting him, and she squeezed his hand tightly before giving him a chaste kiss. 

"Good luck," she murmured, and let him go. She could almost feel his eyes on her retreating back like a burn, singeing the edges of her shirt as she clambered through the gap in the hedge.

Still, she didn't turn around. 

****

o-o-o

**  
**  
_25th January, 12 months before the wedding._  


Harold Smith's manor was, in Rose's opinion, the only residence she'd ever come across that befitted the tiresome cliché of 'a sight to behold', and it certainly was something. After a long drive that led them further out to the burbs of London John pulled the Tardis into a long gravel driveway, where they joined a queue of cars leading up to the front steps. Rose tried her best not to look too amazed; besides the impressive amount of guests tottering up the stairs in gorgeous evening gowns with radiant smiles that already made her feel self conscious, it was the house itself that caught her attention. The walls were stone grey and climbed three stories like something she might see out of a period novel, while the steps at the front were chiselled into a soft white marble. Tall columns stood on either side of the main door and the light shining from the few open windows were warm, a stark contrast to the freezing air outside, and seemed ever so welcoming. Rose marvelled at how such an open and inviting home might belong to someone as chilling as Harold Smith. 

John seemed to read her thoughts as he pulled them up to a stop outside the main steps. "Believe it or not, he owned this place for years before he even got into politics. When I was about eighteen we were both left a substantial sum of money by our great aunt Romana after she passed away. I spent mine on travelling and he decided to become a supporting character in a Jane Austen novel." 

With a grin he jumped out of the car, and before she could turn to her own door he'd sprinted around the side and opened it for her. Politely he offered his hand and helped her to her feet, then threw the keys to a waiting valet and instructed him sternly to look after the old girl.

"I feel like a film star," Rose watched the valet drive off and felt a twinge of regret at seeing the Tardis retreat out of sight. She was a bit of a fan. John noticed the direction her gaze was following in and squeezed her hand reassuringly, before folding it into the crook of his arm. They could almost be going for chips again like they did any other day. 

"You look like a film star," he commented as they began to mount the steps. The closer they got the house the more it felt like it was looming over them, blocking out each of the stars one by one. 

"Why are there so many cameras?" Rose got out between a smile as they joined the queue of people waiting to get in. 

John shrugged. "Mayor's birthday. My guess is they probably just want to score a snap of him drunk that they can plaster all over the papers tomorrow morning." 

"Reckon anyone from Gallifrey is here?" 

"Oh, I hope so. I'll keep an eye out for Yvonne, and if we see her be sure to give her a huge wave." Rose chuckled as they finally reached the entrance and a waiting doorman stopped them before they could go in. 

"Name?" he said tiredly, as if he were bored already. 

"John Smith—brother of the host." John peeked over his shoulder at the list and gave it a helpful tap when he spotted his name. "I'm John Smith, that's me. And this is Rose Tyler, she's my plus one. That alright?" The doorman gave them both a sceptical look, until John slipped a £20 into the breast pocket of his suit. "That alright?" he repeated. 

The doorman smiled and waved them through. "Have a lovely evening sir, madam." 

John beamed and pulled her through to the foyer where they were guided towards another door at the end of the hall. 

Rose watched him dubiously. "I thought you said you got me a ticket?"

"I lied," he said. "But I _did_ get you into the party." She laughed and bumped his shoulder affectionately. "Very exclusive guest list for this, actually, and Harry has an awful lot to remember so I doubted he'd have gotten round to putting your name on the list even though I told him you were coming." 

Before she could reply they were waved through to a large dining hall—at one end there stood a stage lifted around four feet from the ground and atop it sat a smartly attired string quartet playing something that Rose had never heard but sounded pleasant, like something her senile aunt Margaret might listen to. A banner hung across the top of the stage although it was nothing like what she'd see back home; the lettering was plain black in block capitals reading "Many Happy Returns Harold". Rose felt bored just looking at it. What really grabbed her attention were the guests directly in front of her smiling and laughing shrilly over glasses of champagne, dressed to their best in luscious evening gowns—she immediately felt out of place in her cocktail dress. She felt a rush of irritation for John at that moment. If he'd only gone through the trouble of talking over the dress code with her she wouldn't have turned up so severely underdressed.

"You look wonderful," he said, and she found his mouth surprisingly close to her ear. "They look pretentious." He tapped her hand and angled her toward a group of chatting patrons dressed in a similar fashion to herself.

She threw a glance over her shoulder at the older women, one of whose gaze raked over her critically. "Reckon you could come up with a good few backstories for them like you did those people at Mott's." She straightened; she wasn't going to let a few harpies in nicer dresses get her down. 

"What do you mean 'come up with'?" John protested. "All of my stories are rooted in 100% truth."

"Said the journalist," she teased. "Rule one: the writer lies."

"Is that so?" he mused, pausing to take a canapé from a passing waiter's tray. "Well you'll be glad to know I'm not lying about Lady Horsington over there." He nodded to a woman holding her hand to her breast as she giggled. Rose observed the long face and pinched nose, her sunken eyes giving off the impression of the animal John had given her as a namesake.

"Oh?"

"Nope. Did you know she looked so much like a horse when she was born that her parents considered raising her as one?" Rose snorted with laughter but John deadpanned. "I'm deadly serious. Imagine how great it would be to have a horse grow up with your children. Of course, the truth came out in an argument with her mother in her early teens which led to a lot of angst and soul-searching. But if she ever leaves a door open don't ask her if she was born in a barn, she's awfully sensitive about it." 

Rose swatted him on the arm. "You're terrible." 

"I'm brilliant," he replied. "And don't get me started on Sir Walrus-Moustache over there—"

"No, you can't!" Rose gaped.

John paused, bewildered. "Can't what?"

"Just—don't, not him. That's _Henry van Statten!_ " 

"Henry von Whatten?" 

She rolled her eyes. "Henry van Statten," she repeated, as if the name should mean something to him. "The Editor of the Vault, possibly the biggest name in journalism living this side of the Atlantic? I told you about him, remember?" Rose's gaze wandered to the man in question, standing surrounded by a ring of people as he entertained them with an outrageous story and equally wild gestures. Having now mentally made the comparison between his bristling moustache and a walrus, she couldn't help but smile. He was the sort of man whose presence captured a room and drew people to him naturally; everyone knew who Henry van Statten was, and that he oozed charm and charisma. 

Back when she was at secondary school in London she'd gone on work experience as an intern at the Vault offices for a week; she'd spent the entire time ferrying coffee and files to and from his assistant, Diana Goddard's desk hoping desperately for a peek of him, but to her fifteen-year-old self it had been the most magical week of her life, and one of the many experiences that had inspired her to become a journalist in the first place. He was a hero; the kind of man who'd stop at nothing to get a story. 

John watched her staring at him with a soft smile. Then he nudged her with his elbow. "Well, go on, go and talk to him."

Rose stared at him like he'd just dribbled on his shirt. "I can't just _talk_ to him. He's Henry van Statten!" 

"So? He could be Miss United States for all I care, we're going to talk to him." Without giving her a chance to respond he let her hand drop from his arm and clasped it in one of his own. "Allons-y!"

"Don't!" Rose half-laughed-half-hissed, using their interlocked fingers to tug him back. "John, stop!"

"Or maybe I should go alone instead?" He waggled his eyebrows. "Tell him all about my great pal Rose and how much she admires him?"

"You wouldn't dare," she challenged, a little uncertainly. 

His eyes twinkled mischievously. "Wouldn't I?" 

Thankfully before he could pull her any closer to Henry van Statten, he was stopped in his tracks by an older woman having approached them from behind and tapping him lightly on the shoulder. She smiled as she startled him, but it was touched with the same kind of feigned politeness Rose was seeing all over the room that hid a lot more about a personality. Her hair was blonde, though clearly not naturally so because of the white roots at the base of her head, and her smile was dotted with wrinkles tugging at the side of her mouth. 

"Sorry to disturb you, sir, my name is Vivien Rook—I'm a journalist from the Sunday Mirror." 

John grinned as he stepped back to join Rose. "What a coincidence, so is—" His companion stepped on his toes with her heeled foot, _hard_. "So is, ah, Henry von Starton over there. Marvellous bloke. Love the tache." 

Vivien spared the Editor a fleeting glance. "I do beg your pardon but you're John Smith, aren't you? The brother of the Mayor?"

"Just so," John nodded. "How can I help you?"

"I was planning on writing a feature on the man of the hour, Harold himself, for this week's issue." She brushed some of her hair from her eyes as she pulled out a notebook. "I wonder if I might be able to pester you with a couple of questions? Get some background information; childhood, all that sort of thing." 

John's hand tightened in Rose's, but he smiled nonetheless. "Of course, go right ahead."

Vivien clicked the top of her pen loudly and flicked through the pages until she came to an empty one. "Thank you ever so much. So—to get stuck in—did he always have designs on obtaining such a high position in UK politics?"

"Well, I don't know about politics, but he certainly had an ambition to be an astronaut for a long time which is in the same vein." Vivien didn't react, pen poised at the ready as if waiting for him to continue so John cleared his throat. "I mean, as in, high. Astronauts go pretty high." Rose observed him not being used to his jests being so blankly received and suppressed a giggle. "Erm. Kidding, of course. Well, I mean, he was always interested in getting involved in class elections and stuff when we were at school. He got voted onto the student council almost every year." 

Vivien nodded, diligently taking notes. "And how would you rate his leadership abilities back then?"

John frowned, and tilted his head to one side. "Oh, I don't know. I'm his brother, I thought he was rubbish at everything even if he wasn't." He scratched his ear with a chuckle. "And I'm convinced he used to fix those elections." 

Vivien stopped dead, looking back up at him over the tip of her notebook. "Oh?"

He hesitated under the intensity of her stare and Rose squeezed his hand as a show of support. 

"Well—I mean—not really. I was only kidding. Again."

"So that's not a habit he's kept up?"

John bristled. "Certainly not." 

Vivien nodded thoughtfully and scribbled something down. "And where do you stand on the many accusations that his campaign last year was fraudulent?" 

"I'm afraid I can't comment on the election," his smile had by now faded, "I was out of the country." 

"But do you believe he's capable of such a deception?"

Here he visibly stiffened and Rose watched the exchange, feeling uncomfortably like a voyeur. The journalist was walking on thin ice with her prodding and she could feel John's patience waning. If the stone in his gaze was any indication she didn't expect this conversation to last much longer. 

"Sorry, excuse me," he began curtly, tone like a sheet of ice, "I'm not really sure what you're trying to imply." 

"Nothing," Vivien replied evenly, staring down his challenge. "I'm simply getting all the facts."

"Well I find it highly disrespectful that you're sniffing around for details for a smear campaign in his own house, on his birthday no less," John growled and although Rose felt no love for Harry whatsoever she shared in his indignation. "And I'll take no part in it. So either put that notepad away and enjoy the rest of your evening or I'll have to inform security." 

Vivien acted like she hadn't heard him. "A reliable source has informed me that Mr. Smith was involved in a violent incident that left your mother blind while he was in his late teens—can I get a quote from you on that?"

John tensed and for a moment Rose was worried about what he might do—she was convinced he might lunge for the woman, a tempest raging in his eyes as he surveyed her. It was the darkness and the white hot anger in his expression, the paleness of his knuckles that did all the talking though he didn't respond immediately. Vivien noticed it too, and Rose watched her visibly try and stop herself from taking a step back. 

When John spoke his tone was dangerously low, the words falling so quietly that she had to strain her ears to hear.

"Don't make me ask twice. Get. Out." 

With all the dignity she could muster the journalist tilted her chin up and set her expression. Chastised, she pointedly avoided John's gaze as she gave the pair of them a curt nod and brushed past. 

For one of the first times since Rose had met John an odd sensation of awkwardness settled between them. She could feel him visibly quaking with anger, his loyalty to Harry palpable in his every breath, his every twitching movement. Even if she didn't much like his brother, she had to admire that. She laid a hesitant hand on his arm which seemed to jolt him back to the present. 

"You alright?"

"I'm always alright," he replied, almost automatically, as his face shifted into a mask of nonchalance. The only indication of repressed frustration could be seen in the furrow of one eyebrow as he threw a look in the direction the journalist had left in. "Just the—the nerve of some people, hm?" His tone felt strained as if he were trying to reign something in.

"Don't let her ruin your evening," Rose continued firmly, then in an attempt to bring back the joviality from earlier; "She's just one dumb journalist in a sea of sort of alright ones."

John swallowed, and her quip fell flat. "I'm just going to... better go inform security." He nodded as if trying to affirm this decision to himself. "She shouldn't..."

Rose watched him carefully. "Want me to come?"

"No," he answered quickly, licking his lips. "No, I mean, you should go start to enjoy yourself. Mingle." He forced some cheerfulness into his voice. "S'what you're here for, right?"

"John—?"

"Think I might go get some air too." He gave her a strained smile and squeezed her arm reassuringly. "See you in a bit."

In a few seconds he was lost to the crowd, and she was left with the odd feeling that her golden ticket was floating away from her. Of course she cared about John and was very worried about his reaction to Vivien Rook's questions, but something in his expression had said he needed some time alone. She respected that and she hoped he'd be alright, but she also felt overwhelmingly uncomfortable moving through the party without him. She shouldn't even _be_ here, and she wouldn't be if it weren't for him and a £20 note in the breast pocket of the doorman. The ease with which she'd circled the room earlier by John's side had dissipated, and she felt awkwardly vulnerable amongst all these old acquaintances who knew each other so very well. She rubbed her arm and made for the refreshments table, if only so she could try and find a base before allegedly throwing herself out there. That was what John would have been encouraging her to do anyway, wasn't it? 

The refreshments table was a mere few feet away, and with it her confidence, but before she could get there she was startled by an arm snaking around her waist and twirling her around. She held back a squeal of surprise as she whirled around to see her would-be assailant and found herself staring into the grinning face of Jack Harkness. 

Rose nearly collapsed onto him with relief. Then she hit on the arm. "Don't do that!" She glared and he had the good grace to a look a little sheepish. "But I'm so glad you're here."

"I saw the prettiest woman in the room was standing by herself and I thought I'd amend the situation." He smirked, putting an arm around her shoulders and hugging her into him. Then he looked down at her with concern. "Where's John? He hasn't ditched you already has he?"

"No," she answered quickly. "I mean, yeah. But not really?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Well, which is it?"

"There was this journalist," Rose wasn't really sure which details were worth relaying to Jack. "She's trying to write a bad article about the Mayor and I think John was offended by some of her questions. Well, I mean, he had every right to be—she was pretty rude."

Jack frowned. "What did she say?"

"Stuff about his campaign mainly, him stacking the votes. Then I think she said something about his mother?"

All the laughter drained from Jack's face. "Their mother? John and Harry's mother?"

"Yeah." She watched her friend carefully and saw his expression morph into one of unease; it was clearly something very wrong, or neither of them would have reacted the way they did. Jack glanced around the room as if searching for him, and Rose told him about him wandering off to inform security and get some fresh air. "Jack what is it? What happened to her?" 

Jack paused and surveyed her uncertainly, possibly not sure if he should say. Then when he finally opened his mouth the voice that addressed her didn't belong to him. 

"Rose? That is Rose Tyler, isn't it?"

Rose turned and watched Ianto Jones squeezing past a dancing couple towards them. "Mr. Jones," she greeted politely, but she wasn't sure she wanted to be distracted at this moment. Not to mention it was slightly awkward to be browsing the guests for connections to potentially move jobs when your boss was in the same room—she'd forgotten the Editor-in-Chief at the Gallifrey Chronicle may well have garnered himself an invite. 

"This is a lovely surprise. What are you doing here?" He grinned as he reached them. 

"Oh erm, I'm just a plus one. Came with John to stop him doing something stupid." Which, she fretted, he may well be close to doing. She turned to Jack for a little assistance in excusing her from the situation, but was surprised and a little frustrated to find his attentions weren't focused anywhere near her.

"I couldn't agree more," Jack smarmed, "this _is_ a lovely surprise. Captain Jack Harkness." He held out a hand and Ianto took it with a small smile on his face. "Rose's closest friend."

"And apparently our closeness is directly proportional to how handsome the company I keep is." She shot Jack a glare but he wasn't interested. Ianto stared at her in confusion for a moment before the penny dropped; then his eyes shot to Jack, who was making no effort to hide his eyes appraising the tight suit her boss was wearing.

Ianto floundered. "Oh, no—I mean—I'm flattered, but—I'm not—"

"That's what you think." Jack gave him a wink in response. Ianto flushed an impressive shade of scarlet, and Rose felt a rush of sympathy for him. Before she could attempt to rescue him Jack was seemingly coming to his senses. "In any case, you seem like an upstanding man, Mr..?"

"Jones," he got out, "Ianto."

"Well then Jones, Ianto," he grinned, "I was hoping I could leave Rose in your excellent company for a few minutes—look after her for me, won't you?"

"Jack," Rose growled, "I'm not a child. Now tell me what's going on!" 

Her friend cast Ianto a hesitant look before pulling Rose to one side and murmuring so he wouldn't be able to hear. "Please, just let me do this. John probably just needs a few nice words and I have experience in this department—I'll explain it all later, I promise."

Rose chewed her lip. "I'll stay." Jack let his shoulders sag with relief. "Only if you stop hitting on _my boss_."

Jack looked over at the man in question still piecing together his composure and let out a regretful sigh. "Fine." He cleared his throat and took a few steps back towards Ianto, clapping him on the shoulder. "Maybe in another lifetime Jones, Ianto. Thanks for this. I'll pick her up in ten." The American then disappeared into the crowd, leaving Rose and Ianto standing awkwardly trying to puzzle through what had just happened to their respective evenings. 

"The, erm... you know the punch is really quite something." Ianto's voice was a few octaves higher than Rose remembered it being at the Chronicle the other day.

"I'm sure," she responded dryly, but let him lead her through the partygoers to the refreshments table, eyes peeled for any sign of John and brow creased with concern.

****

o-o-o

Jack found John sitting outside on Harry's patio, perched on a low stone wall and staring out over the expanse of the lawn. It was just tall enough for his legs to swing, barely brushing the ground and with his tie loosened and contemplative expression he seemed very small, like a child. The captain couldn't tell if it was because of what Rose had told him a few minutes ago or otherwise, but although his posture seemed young his eyes looked old, and very, very tired. He shut the French doors behind him and made his presence known, stuffing his hands in his pockets and going to lean against the wall.

When John tensed up Jack remembered they hadn't spoken since their argument over Rose the day before. Being friends with John came so much more naturally than fighting with him, but he realised he'd have to vault over that hurdle before he could find out if his friend was okay—he'd give about as much as water from a stone until then. 

"Captain," he greeted neutrally, not taking his eyes from the garden. Dark shadows danced under tree branches and broke the illusion of stillness. Jack breathed some warm air onto his hands and rubbed them together to try and protect them from the cold before shoving them back into his pockets. 

"Doctor," he returned. The flicker of a smile pulled at John's mouth.

"You don't like calling me that," he mused, "in fact you don't like _anyone_ calling me that if I recall."

"That's because most people don't know what it means. What was it you told Jake? That you like being called 'Doctor' because of your doctorate?" He let out a breath of laughter, it fading into condensation. John shrugged in response. "I just don't like the fact that you're always trying to compare yourself to this imaginary hero. It's not healthy."

"Gives me something to aspire to."

"The Doctor isn't real," he reminded him, " _you're_ real. Focus on you. When was the last time you wrote a chapter of that anyway?"

John opened his mouth as if he wanted to spout a biting retort, then changed his mind. He finally turned to look at Jack plainly, with big brown eyes. "I was actually writing just before I came out. Muse comes at unlikely times."

"Or with unlikely people." They both knew what that meant. "I'm sorry, John. I was an ass yesterday—and for all the time we've known each other, for never mentioning her. You helped me so much in those first few years with running the Agency and I repaid you with suspicion and withholding information out of some misguided view of protectiveness."

"It's fine," John tried to wave him away, "I may have overreacted. If Donna warned you about me it was with good reason, and you had every right to be wary."

" _No_ ," he insisted. "I didn't. I didn't even know you, and when I did I hardly tried to change things." His friend didn't quite seem to know how to respond, so he nodded stiffly which Jack understood to be him relenting and accepting the apology. He wasn't finished, however. "And another thing—I don't lord over Rose, she's her own person and if she wants to be a good friend to you and you want to be a good friend to her, then I shouldn't be doing or saying anything to get in the way of that."

There was fierce assent in John's eyes, which Jack had to look away from guiltily. "And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for yesterday—but I want you to be careful. If you _do_ decide to..." He struggled to keep his expression neutral, "...Pursue her romantically, then I want you to know that I won't approve."

John nodded, like he'd suspected as much all along. Jack wouldn't be surprised if that was the case—he was hardly subtle about his feelings on the matter. 

"But right now I want to forget about all that, alright? Rose... she told me what happened inside, and I wanted to come find you. I just want to be your friend."

All the fire in John's eyes faded, replaced by a melancholy that caused an ache in Jack's heart to see there. 

"It's nothing."

"Don't lie to me, or so help me I will push you off that wall."

He sighed and shook his head. "Honestly, Jack, I'm fine. I was just—I wasn't expecting it, and she mentioned Mum and Rose was there... it just made things weird. And then I ran off." John rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I'm good at that. Well, _great_ , in fact." 

After a moment's hesitation Jack hopped up onto the wall beside him, doing his best not to think about what the scratchy stone might do to his new suit. 

"What did she say?"

"I really don't want to talk about it."

Jack heaved a heavy sigh. There was no use trying to claw something out of him when he was this reluctant. By nature John was a very private individual, despite his disposition seeming to imply the opposite, and when he decided he wanted to keep something to himself he usually succeeded. That didn't mean some things didn't need to be said, though. 

"If it's about Sarah Jane's accident," he began, and as he felt John stiffen beside him he knew he was right, "I don't have to remind you that it wasn't your fault, do I?"

"Wasn't it?" he mused.

"No," Jack replied sharply. "And I'm going to be annoyed if we have to go over this all again. You know I'll play any kind of game under the sun with you, but the blame game is the only exception."

"Look, Jack—"

"Regardless, I'll do it if I have to, seeing as you always seem to turn yourself into the villain of your own story. I'm more than prepared to—" 

" _Jack_." John cut him off with a firm shake of the head. "Can we not? Can we just—sit?"

The pleading look in his eye caught Jack off guard, and he cleared his throat before nodding. 

"I just want a mate right now, that's all." 

This drew out a sly grin. "You just want to mate, huh?"

John scowled in disgust. " _A_ mate. I want _a_ mate, Jack."

"Ever heard of a Freudian slip? You could've said friend there, John, but you didn't." The captain bumped his shoulder into John's playfully, and his friend did his best to suppress his amusement. 

"Stop it."

"Or confidante. Companion."

" _Jack._ "

" _Mate_. You really are a psychiatrist's field day, aren't you?"

****

o-o-o

_**27th August, 4 months before the wedding.** _

Rose's phone buzzed in her pocket, and she spared the screen a glance.

_Gone 15 minutes, please tell me you're ok. —J._

It wasn't exactly the time to tap out a reply, seeing as she was halfway down the corridor and feeling incredibly vulnerable. Every shadow sent her leaping into open doorways with pulse racing and adrenaline pumping, but luckily the lavish interior of the manor gave her plenty of places to hide. Rose had always known Harold Smith had spared no expense on the construction of his rather stately home after coming into his inheritance, but having only ever seen the odd room on the ground floor and the garden prior to now, she was only just realising how much his extravagance filled every corner of the house. She was currently tip-toeing along the second floor to the way she knew led to Harry's office, a plush velvet carpet beneath her feet cushioning her footsteps as she went. Quite convenient, in fact.

It was a well publicised truth that Harry left the door to his office unlocked, perhaps to tempt potential opponents into trying to find incriminating evidence against him, but he was notorious for always catching them in the act. Those same fears drummed at the edge of her consciousness, but she had John on her side—the brother of the man in question, and a greater insight into the workings of his mind than any other. With Harry out the manor and his security team otherwise occupied, she should be afforded the privacy she needed. She'd finish what Vivien started and find the link the journalist had given her life searching for.

Rifling through his papers was, unfortunately, no easy task. There didn't seem to be any kind of organisation system to the office, papers were simply placed wherever there was space; strewn across his desk or stacked in piles on the shelves at the back or in the drawers. Anywhere. And what she was looking for had such a slim chance of being there—anything that might connect him to Skaro. If there was anywhere besides the Bad Wolf building itself that would house such a document, it would be his office. Irritatingly it was like searching for a needle in a haystack.

Just when she was growing frustrated, she spotted something tucked in the corner of the room; a small filing cabinet, it's steel exterior contrasting with the furnished wood of the rest of the office in a suggestive manner. When she approached it and found it locked she had a feeling she might've struck gold. If only there was some way to open it?

She turned with the intent of searching for something to pry at it with, but when she recognised the figure leaning leisurely on the doorframe she was convinced she stopped breathing. 

"Well, well, well," he smirked, "to coin a cliché. What have we here?"

****

o-o-o

_**25th January, 12 months before the wedding.** _

Rose had since left Ianto to enjoy the party, and was beginning to find this whole business rather annoying. She'd now been dismissed by both John and Jack and she was starting to get frustrated—she wasn't some toy to be picked up or put down at their behest, a trophy to be paraded around and then discarded. She was here as John's guest and it was common decency for him to at least _tell_ her why she was being left to fend for herself; in layman's terms, perhaps, if it was a situation too complicated for her to understand as Jack seemed to heavily imply. 

Frustration simmered at that insinuation as well. It didn't take a detective to see that John had obviously been affected by something the journalist had said, and he'd needed some time to think about it. It wasn't like she was going to press him into revealing intimate details about his life if he stayed, she was just concerned. Like any friend would be. This was supposed to be a fun evening with a mate, but it was spinning rapidly out of control as she stepped away into the foyer and out of the party hall. If John and Jack weren't going to come to her she'd just have to go to them. 

After offering as confident a smile as she could manage to one of the large, ominous security guards loitering around the foyer, she picked the first door immediately available to her and slipped inside hoping to find them. By all appearances it seemed to be some sort of gallery, with a few framed paintings lining the walls and a rather explicit statue in the corner of a scantily clad Greek-looking couple. Rose resisted the urge to grimace on catching sight of it.

"At least I know I'm still in the same house." It seemed like something that would conform to Harry's tastes. 

Seeing neither of her friends were there she turned to leave, but no sooner had she made the decision when the door opened abruptly behind her. Her heart jumped—and then immediately plummeted on setting eyes on the owner of the house stepping through.

"Bored already?"

He leaned heavily on the wooden door to shut it behind him, the slight sway in his movements hinting to her that he'd probably had a little bit more than his fair share of the punch Ianto seemed so fond of. None of it served in dulling the intensity of his stare.

Rose tried for nonchalance, offering a half-shrug. "Would that bother you?" She made a show of examining the painting beside her; it was just a landscape, but feigning interest was a forte of hers. 

"It's my birthday, Miss Tyler," he continued as if she hadn't spoken, "I want _everyone_ to be having fun."

"Well, you wouldn't wanna miss your own party cooped up in here, would you?" she pointed out. She wanted him to leave, or at least step away from the door so that she could depart herself and continue her search for John and Jack.

Harry took a step towards her and made no effort to hide the way his eyes raked the dress hugging her form. Rose's skin crawled uncomfortably, and indignation flared in her gut. "It's my _birthday_ ," he reiterated with a drawl. "So where's my gift?"

Rose gave him a scathing look. "I'm going." She turned from the painting and made to push past him, but his right hand shot out with a speed it shouldn't be capable of and held her in place. "Let go of me!" She tried to wrest her arm from his grip. "Or I'll kick you where you'll feel it for a week, alright?"

The corner of his mouth twisted in a sneer. "My, my. Does John know you've got such a wicked tongue?" His whiskey-coloured eyes burned and Rose was torn between trying to meet his gaze defiantly and pull herself away. "Best he doesn't, or it might send him packing. I do hope someone's warned you that he's very, _very_ good at that." 

Rose narrowed her eyes and finally wrenched her arm free from his sluggish fingers. "You're disgusting," she spat, "and drunk. And I don't know you well enough to be able to tell if those things are mutually exclusive." She shoved past him. "And I'm not sticking around to find out."

There was that same gleam in Harry's eyes that she felt prickling her back, but she ignored it. She'd made it one, two paces closer to the door when—

"Rose!" The door had opened and the aforementioned bloke had poked his head around the door, chestnut brown hair in complete disarray. "There you are! Bit of an odd place to take a breather, isn't it?" Then he noticed her companion, who was currently engrossed in that same landscape painting. "Harry!" John stepped into the room and over to his brother, drawing him into a large hug. Harry smirked triumphantly at Rose over John's shoulder, as if he'd won some war she'd been unaware they were waging. It irked her no matter what the reason; the sooner they left him, the better.

"I've been looking for you everywhere," John was still speaking as he drew back. "Happy birthday!"

Harry tilted his head graciously. He was like a changed man. "I was looking for you too—figured Rose Tyler would be the best place to start."

John glanced between the two of them, looking every bit like the eager puppy hopeful for his master and his new toy to get along, and in that moment Rose knew she could never tell him what Harry had said. Harry Smith, the married man, the Mayor of London; she saw how he reacted to the insinuations the journalist made. John clearly looked up to him. It would crush him.

If Harry's grin was anything to go by, he knew it too. 

"I was just giving her some present ideas."

Rose shot him a steely glare. John looked back at her in bemusement. "You're getting him a present?" His eyes were shining with delight at the revelation, and she didn't have the heart to contradict him. 

"I—it is his birthday," she managed, mustering all her willpower not to get it out between gritted teeth. Harry's grin grew wider at her response.

"Isn't she sweet?" Harry patted her lightly on the head and her hand twitched at her side in desperation to give her one of the famous Tyler slaps. It took all her self control to keep it in place. "Anyway, party to host. Wouldn't want to miss out on all the fun, would I?" He gave Rose a significant look, winked and slipped back through the door. Unfortunately he was only gone a few seconds before his head popped back around. "Try not to have too much in here without me, alright?" 

When he was gone, properly gone, and Rose felt the need to take a long shower just to be rid of even the barest hint of Harry having touched her, an ounce of silence settled between them. It was the first time she'd found an encounter between the two of them to be hesitant—normally they were bounding off each other with astounding synchronicity, and for something to feel jarred and heavy was a strange sensation. John had been something else tonight, something peculiar. Rose wasn't sure what to make of it.

"So..." she trailed off, tucking some of her hair behind her ear. "What happened back there?"

John scratched the back of his head. "I know this is probably the last thing you want to hear, but can we not talk about it?"

"There's so much you don't talk about." She found the words hitting the space between them before she'd really processed them. John didn't reply, simply stared at her with something akin to contrition in his warm eyes. She cleared her throat. "I'm just worried, is all. I don't like not being able to help when a mate's upset." 

"You help enough," he replied softly, "just as you are."

Rose didn't believe him, but maybe it was enough to leave the topic as it was—at least for the moment. 

"Now, Rose Tyler." His voice picked up and his tongue rolled around the last syllable of her name. "Would you care to accompany me back into the party?"

By the time they re-entered the hall where the main body of the celebrations were being held, Harry was up on stage speaking slightly haltingly into a microphone, champagne glass raised high above his head in toast. 

"If you're looking for your drunk Mayor shot," he seemed to be addressing the journalists, " _this is it_." A ripple of laughter echoed across the room. The shutters of several cameras could be heard clicking. "Thirty six. Thirty six, six, six. I'm now, officially, halfway to seventy-two. Won't that be grand? I just want to thank everyone for coming tonight, especially those who have descended into states of inebriation of varying degree with me. I think this evening I've discovered those who are my true friends," his eyes scanned the room and Rose felt like they settled on her, "and those who are only pretending."

Before he could say more, muffled yelps were suddenly heard from outside and the doors behind them swung open. Caught and struggling between two security guards was Vivien Rook, the journalist from earlier. Rose immediately felt a tightening on her hand, and she squeezed back to try and reassure him. 

"Oh, hello!" Harry's voice boomed through the microphone before he realised and backed away, jumping down from the stage. "And who might you be?"

"Vivien Rook," one of the guards replied roughly, "her name isn't on the guest list. We caught her snooping around your office upstairs."

"How exciting," Harry beamed, "an intruder! So tell me, Vivien Rook, what should I do with you?"

The exchange had become the central focus of the entire room, not even a hushed whisper wanting to drown out a word. Vivien seemed aware of the same thing and tried her best to save face. 

"I'm going to expose you, Smith," she spoke with a steely resolve, words hushed but firm. "I know what you're up to and when I get proof, the entire world will know."

"What I'm—?" To his credit, he seemed genuinely confused. "What I'm up to?" He looked around the room, feeding off the buzz of the crowd. "Apparently she knows what I'm up to. My dear, I hate to break it to you—" He gestured to the room at large, to the outlandish decorations and the stunned guests. "But I'm not exactly a private person. The whole world already knows. I'd even wager it'll be all over the tabs come tomorrow morning!"

Before she could come out with a protest Harry waved to the guards and they pulled her from the room; she was far too dignified to yell after him, but the fury was evident in her eyes until the doors were pulled shut again. 

"Some journalists just love to go that extra mile, don't they?" Laughter again, though Rose didn't get the joke. Some of Harry's guests were just a little too indulgent for her liking. "Now where was I—oh, yes, drink, be merry, but save the rest for me. Thank you all for coming." 

With the resume of polite laughter and the tinkle of glasses, Rose was beginning to feel rather disenchanted with the entire event. Gone was the magic she'd experienced a few hours ago; she felt less like a movie star and more like the only sane person in the room, save for the man holding tightly onto her hand. Only when she looked up at him did he seem to realise how hard he'd been squeezing it, and murmured an apology. 

"I guess we're back where we started, then." He nodded at the room looking every bit the same as earlier, if with a few more stumbling guests and slightly louder conversations. It seemed the jovial nature of their partnership had faded with the spell of the evening too.

"Without Vivien Rook," she pointed out, and watched him carefully for a reaction. 

Not even a flicker of emotion broke the mask. Instead he smiled. "Without Vivien Rook," he agreed. "So." He took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and found his eyes coming to rest on a familiar face. Henry van Statten was laughing raucously with some other guests, loud and boisterous and he found himself irritated that _this man_ garnered such earnest admiration from Rose. "What about the pageant queen over there? Am I still going to talk to her for you?"

Rose followed the line of his gaze, but then smirked to herself. "You know what?" she said, patting his arm. "I think I've got this covered." With a tongue-touched smile she turned and began walking in his direction. 

John called after her, "She's beauty and she's grace..."

"Shut up!" she threw over her shoulder. 

He grinned, and tried to hide it behind his glass. It took a large majority of his willpower not to stare at the sashaying of her hips, and he had a horrible feeling that had been her intention. Not that Rose Tyler trying to get his attention was a bad thing, per se, more like him giving her said attention would only result in bad things. Copious amounts of bad things. All the bad things he could possibly think of, then an added suitcase of bad. It was in his psyche; his own worst enemy.

Feeling oddly sombre he began to circulate, leaving Rose to her own devices with Walrus Moustache and tried not to think too much about it. He felt more than a little guilty—he'd brought her here as his guest and he'd abandoned her, though she seemed to have managed. She was far more resourceful than he'd given her credit, and it had clearly allowed her to pluck up the courage to talk to von Stilton. Pride surged in his chest before he capped it. 

It worried him that in such a short time she'd become so important, like the best friend he never knew he'd been missing. He hadn't experienced that sort of instant connection since Donna first introduced him to Jack—they'd barely known each other a month before they rented their first flat together. Some friendships just seemed to click; like his with Rose. Still, with Jack hovering near at all times it was difficult to just relax and let himself enjoy it, for fear it might begin leading somewhere else. Even so, he couldn't resist it. Unfortunately his lack of resolve was how they always started.

River had been his best shot, he reminded himself. Someone equally noncommittal, someone just as dishonest; someone he'd thought would understand the deepest idiosyncrasies that made up his personality. He'd still hurt her. If he lured Rose in he'd ruin her. 

Mayhaps he was being too overconfident. Would he even be _able_ to draw Rose to him? 

His heart thudded involuntarily and he swallowed, trying desperately to dismiss that line of thinking. Making it a challenge would be a mistake.

Before he could head over to a table of entrées he heard a gasp and what sounded like a splash from behind him. He turned his head to the source of the commotion and was dumbfounded at what he saw. Henry van Statten, drenched in what looked like red wine, and Rose Tyler glaring and holding the now empty glass. 

A second passed, two. 

John nearly lost her to the ensuing uproar.


End file.
